Harvest Hell

by Gar Wilson

A briefcase on the floor between his feet contained a compact Uzi submachine gun with two spare magazines. He noticed that Draco had a NATO Sumak-9 subgun in the back seat. A 9mm blow-back weapon similar to the American M-3, the Sumak-9 could unleash a death spray that could cut a man in half.

  In addition to the submachine guns, both men were armed with pistols. Katz carried a SIG-Sauer P-226 in shoulder leather under his right arm. An excellent double-action autoloader, the P-226 could fire off fifteen rounds of 9mm hollowpoints as smoothly as a hot needle passes through butter. The Israeli also carried a .380 Astra Constable in a pancake holster at the small of his back for a holdout piece. Draco had a 9mm FN Browning automatic and a fighting dagger strapped to his right ankle.

  Katz pressed the transmit button to a communicator. "Nighthawk One to Nighthawk Two. Over," he spoke into the radio.

  "Nighthawk Two," the voice of David McCarter replied. "Read you fine, Nighthawk One. Over."

  "Any news? Over."

  "Just a big gray shadow," the Briton answered. "He's about four cars behind you, but tagging along. No doubt about that. Over."

  "Don't get lost, Nighthawk Two."

  "Stay tuned to this channel for further developments," McCarter said, imitating a stuffy BBC announcer.

  "Over and out." Katz ended transmission.

  McCarter, James and Kalvo were following in another vehicle to back up Katz and Draco in an emergency. The Briton's report warned Katz that the lure had worked. They were being tailed. Probably by the same gray sedan Katz had noticed earlier in the day.

  "What do we do now?" Draco inquired. His knuckles jutted from his fists as he clenched the steering wheel harder.

  "We try to pick the battleground," Katz replied. "Let's lead the tail to someplace remote. We don't want to endanger more people than we have to."

  "A remote area in Athens?" The Greek agent groaned. "This city has a population of more than eight hundred fifty thousand people, not including tourists."

  "Get us out of Athens if you have to," the Phoenix Force commander instructed. "Or possibly to a construction site or a limestone quarry. Anyplace there won't be a bunch of civilians to worry about."

  "I'll try." Draco sighed. "But I can't..."

  Suddenly a large beer truck pulled out of an alley in front of the Rabbit. Draco cursed and stomped the brake pedal. The car skidded forward and nearly nose-dived into the side of the larger vehicle.

  "Down!" Katz shouted when he saw the tarp cover fly back from the rear of the truck.

  Draco heeded the Israeli's advice just in time. A shotgun bellowed. The windshield of the VW exploded when a burst of buckshot crashed into it. Shattered glass showered Katz and Draco as they huddled on the floor of the car.

  Pedestrians screamed in terror. A tour bus swerved away from the beer truck and rammed into a lamppost. A kid on a moped steered his bike onto the sidewalk. He leaped off the two-wheeler before it came to a full stop. The kid hit the pavement, rolled and dashed to the entrance of a coffee shop for cover.

  "Theos!" Draco gasped. "They set up an ambush!"

  "I noticed," Katz said dryly as he popped open the door on the passenger's side. "Stay down."

  Another shotgun blast ripped into the backrest of the front seat. Katz tried to ignore the fearsome destruction caused by the buckshot. If he thought about what the devastating pellets could do to human flesh, he might hesitate. To hesitate was to die.

  Motivated by the will to survive and highly developed reflexes, honed by years of experience in combat, the Israeli tumbled from the car. The hook at the end of his right arm gripped the handle of the briefcase. Katz crouched behind the open car door, using it for cover as he drew the SIG-Sauer and flicked off the safety catch.

  A high velocity bullet slapped into the door. Katz heard the sharp crack of a pistol as the slug pierced the metal skin.

  Katz heard another shotgun blast smash into the hood of the Volkswagen. He glanced inside to see if Draco had been hit. A figure appeared at the window by the driver's seat and aimed a revolver at Draco.

  The battle-edged Israeli snap-aimed and triggered his P-226. The SIG-Sauer snarled twice. Two 9mm rounds punched through the windowpane. The gunman's face was transformed into a crimson pulp. The would-be assassin slumped from view.

  A bullet struck the frame of the car two inches above Katz's head. The Israeli's heart raced as he whirled to face the terrorist who emerged from the alley.

  The killer aimed a Hungarian 9mm Walam pistol at Yakov. Katz fired the SIG-Sauer. The gunman doubled up when a slug drilled into his stomach. The Walam spat fire, but the muzzle was pointed at the pavement. A bullet whined as it ricocheted off concrete. Katz blasted another parabellum round through the top of his opponent's bowed head.

  Another shotgun volley peppered the front of the VW. Katz scrambled to the rear of the vehicle and dropped to one knee. He popped open his briefcase and quickly extracted the Uzi. The Israeli shoved the P-226 into his belt and worked the bolt of the subgun to chamber a round.

  Katz rose up and fired a salvo of full-auto brimstone at the truck. Uzi slugs chopped into the chest of the shotgunner positioned at the back of the beer truck. The force of the 9mm hornet swarm sent the gunman's corpse hurtling backward into a column of wooden kegs.

  A second figure, also armed with a double-barreled, sawed-off shotgun, hastily pointed his weapon at Katz. The Phoenix Force pro had already ducked low before the shotgun belched a spray of deadly buckshot. Pellets rang against metal and concrete, but none struck flesh.

  The shotgunner shuffled to a better position and trained his scattergun on Katz. Manos Draco suddenly thrust his arm through the shot-out windshield. He aimed the Browning pistol in his fist and fired twice. The enemy gunman's head snapped backward as one of the 115-grain projectiles sizzled through bone and brain.

  Panic-stricken, the driver of the truck stomped on the gas pedal. The big vehicle lurched forward. The nose of the truck slammed into the side of the disabled tour bus. Vacationers inside shrieked when the frame of the bus caved in.

  The door to the cab of the truck opened. Katz saw the frightened driver dash from the enemy vehicle. The terrorist blindly fired a pistol at the VW as he ran. The Israeli aimed low and triggered the Uzi.

  A salvo of 9mm slugs sliced into the fleeing man's legs. Flesh and muscle turned into jelly. Bone shattered. The terrorist screamed as he tumbled headlong to the pavement.

  Katz rushed forward, holding his Uzi ready in case more enemies still lurked in the shadows. He moved to the wounded man. The guy's neck rested along the curb. A scarlet pool surrounded his broken skull.

  "Is he the last one?" Draco asked as he jogged to Katz's side.

  "For now," the Israeli replied grimly. "But this is just the beginning, my friend."

  12

  Melina nudged Gary Manning. The Canadian uttered an involuntary grunt and rolled over onto his back. He did not open his eyes, and his breathing remained steady. Melina gradually slid out from under the bed sheets and off the mattress.

  Naked, she padded barefoot across to the foot of the bed and picked up her discarded purse. She continued to watch Manning. She had been trained to recognize the telltale signs of a person pretending to be asleep.

  Muscles relaxed during slumber. A faker was usually too tense; the eyelids were closed too firmly, and breathing remained regular, but not too steady. Manning did not appear to be faking.

  Melina smiled. Anthony Peters, if that was indeed his real name, had been good in bed. He was gentle during foreplay and passionate while making love. His sexual endurance startled the woman. Melina could not recall enjoying sex with a stranger before. Seduction was part of her job, but she had never had an orgasm while "working" until that night. The stranger was quite a man.

  Manning's attitude seemed genuine. He had been slightly awkward until he surrendered to lust. Yet Melina was not certain the man was what he claimed to be. He was very muscular for a business executive. But some Americans were health fana
tics who dieted and exercised daily.

  The numerous scars on his superb physique disturbed Melina. He had told her they were old war wounds from the Vietnam conflict. Perhaps that was true, but Melina learned long ago not to believe anything a man said.

  What bothered her the most, however, was the fact that Manning did not wear a wedding ring. Yet he had been reluctant to sleep with her because he claimed he was married.

  She opened her purse and removed a tiny .25-caliber Beretta automatic. Melina snapped off the safety and pointed the pistol at Manning. He still did not stir.

  "CIA pig," she whispered. "I'm going to kill you."

  Melina drew closer and aimed the Beretta at the sleeping head. Manning did not respond to the threat. His eyes remained lightly closed; his breathing did not increase. Melina smiled. Satisfied he was truly asleep, she lowered the pistol.

  The woman returned to the foot of the bed. She knelt beside the bundle of clothing that she and Manning had stripped off before they'd made love. Melina kept the .25 auto in her fist as she examined Manning's suit jacket.

  She probed the fabric with her fingertips, trusting touch more than sight in the dim light. The woman checked the contents of pockets. Passport, two fountains pens, a handkerchief, plane ticket, but nothing unusual. She felt for evidence of anything sewed into the cloth itself. Still nothing.

  Then she examined his trousers. Wallet, spare change, some keys attached to a small pocket flashlight. The wallet contained money, credit cards and a few photographs of a middle-aged couple and a younger woman. These were, in fact, pictures of Manning's parents and his ex-wife Lorraine.

  Melina thought she had discovered something suspicious when she felt a zipper on the inside of Manning's belt. She opened it to find two hundred-dollar bills inside. Melina zipped the money belt shut and checked Manning's shoes. There was nothing hidden inside, and the heels were not hollow.

  Melina picked up her dress and shoes. She rose and smiled at the quiet figure lying in the bed. Maybe Anthony Peters was just who he claimed to be after all. She hoped so for his sake.

  The woman slipped into her dress and returned the Beretta to her purse. She carried her shoes to the door. Melina opened it and silently left the room.

  * * *

  Gary Manning stared at the luminous dial of the Seiko wristwatch on the nightstand beside him. He waited five minutes to be certain Melina had not decided to make a quick check to see if he was still in the bed. The Canadian sat up and breathed deeply, drawing air through his nostrils slowly and exhaling through his mouth.

  The late Keio Ohara had taught him zazen breath control. The Japanese meditation technique was useful in dealing with tension and stress. Manning needed it now. Pretending to be asleep had not been easy, especially when the woman had aimed a gun at his head and said she was going to kill him.

  Of course, the threat had been only a test. If Krio wanted Manning dead, he would not have bothered playing games. Melina had been sent only to search the Canadian's clothing. Others had already checked but his luggage.

  Yet Manning and Encizo were still in considerable danger. Krio was the supreme ruler on the island. He could order their execution anytime he wanted. Colonel Kostov was also somewhere on the island. The veteran Bulgarian agent would know all about methods employed to force men to talk. Torture, truth serum, sleep deprivation, whatever it took to break a man, Kostov would be familiar with it.

  Worse, the Phoenix Force pair may have already been marked for death. They did not know how the mysterious starvation chemical worked. It could have been in their food, or smeared on the surface of their wineglasses. If it could be turned into a mist, it might have been sprayed into the guest rooms and inhaled.

  Keep worrying about it and you'll give yourself stomachaches for sure, Manning told himself. He climbed out of bed. Time to get back to work.

  He padded over to his clothes and found his penlight. The Canadian did not want to turn on the lamp; a light in the window might be noticed by someone outside. Then he opened his wallet and removed a plastic credit card. The VISA card was a forgery printed in the name of Anthony Peters. Yet it was more than just a prop for Manning's false identity. The Canadian snapped off the bottom of the card and moved to his open suitcase.

  He removed the contents from the luggage and ripped the lining to slip the plastic strip from the broken card into a hidden slot. The strip was actually a "flat key." The numbers of the expiration date for the card activated a computer-programmed tumbler. Manning heard a dull click and pulled open the lid to a secret compartment built into the case.

  The Canadian did not like gadgets. "Bond-foolery," he often called them. But the computerized false bottom to the suitcase had worked well enough. The compartment was lined with a thin lead shield to hide detection from X rays. It had fooled customs and, apparently, Krio's people, as well.

  Manning removed the secret contents of the compartment. First he extracted a narrow strip of Composition Four wrapped in brown paper. Manning liked C-4 for what it was, a very stable yet extremely potent plastic explosive. He set the C-4 on the counter and took a small plastic box from the compartment.

  He pried it open and removed a diminutive Sterling Model 302 automatic. Only thirteen ounces and less than five inches long, the Sterling held six rounds of .22 Long Rifle ammunition.

  The last objects Manning took from the compartment were a pair of infrared goggles and a tiny metal packet slightly larger than a book of matches. A metal prong, similar to a tuning fork, protruded from the little packet. The odd contraption was a "bug sweeper," for detecting electronic listening devices.

  Manning decided to see to his weaponry first. He unzipped the money belt and removed the two bills. Then he unwrapped the C-4 and inserted the plastic explosive into the belt.

  Suddenly the door opened. The Canadian snatched up the little Sterling pistol. Rafael Encizo stood in the doorway, shaking his head. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder to indicate he wanted to speak to Manning in the hall. The Canadian nodded and walked softly to the door.

  "I thought you'd never get your ass in gear, damn it," the Cuban complained when Manning joined him in the corridor.

  "Sorry," Manning replied. "But they sent a woman to my room, and I had to wait until she left."

  "They sent one to me, too." Encizo shrugged. "Come on. I'll introduce you to her."

  The Canadian followed Encizo to another guest room. A radio was playing softly, and a naked woman lay on the bed, snoring. Manning looked at Encizo. His puzzled expression amused the Cuban.

  "Talk quietly," Encizo whispered. "The radio is playing next to a bug. See how busy I've been while you were still sitting around naked?"

  "What about the woman?" Manning asked.

  "I guess I was just too much man for the poor thing to handle," Encizo grinned.

  "Rafael..." Manning began sharply.

  "Okay." The Cuban sighed. "If you must know, I had her bring us a bottle of wine and I slipped her a little chlorpromazine. She'll be out for at least two hours."

  "You ready to take a midnight stroll?" Manning asked.

  "I've been ready for half an hour," the Cuban complained.

  Both men had donned black trousers and matching turtleneck shirts and rubber-soled shoes. Encizo was also armed with a tiny Sterling autoloader and carried a Gerber Mark I fighting dagger in a sheath at the small of his back.

  "I hope we don't have to use any of this hardware tonight," the Cuban remarked. "Just as soon make a nice quiet recon of the island and leave here in the morning without Krio and company being aware we cased this place."

  "Maybe we'll be lucky," the Canadian shrugged.

  "We have been so far," Encizo sighed. "That's what worries me. Everything has gone too well."

  "Jesus," Manning muttered, "you're a cynic."

  "I'm more of a realist than a cynic," Encizo replied. "Realistically I know something always goes wrong on a mission."

  "You've been hanging around McCarter to
o much," Manning commented. "Let's get to our mission before sunrise. Okay?"

  13

  "We're still on their arse," David McCarter spoke into his transceiver.

  McCarter referred to the gray sedan that had shadowed Katz and Draco before their VW Rabbit was ambushed. When the fireworks erupted the sedan kept going. Since McCarter, James and Paul Kalvo arrived too late to help their commander in the firefight, they continued to pursue the big gray car.

  "Careful, Nighthawk Two," Katz's voice urged. "They obviously have a radio link with other terrorists, or they couldn't have arranged an ambush. Over."

  "We'll bear that in mind, mate," the Briton agreed. "You chaps take care, too. Over and out."

  Paul Kalvo glanced in the rearview mirror as he drove the Fiat. The CIA man clucked his tongue with disgust when he saw McCarter in the back seat. The mission-toughened vet was grinning like a kid at Christmas as he opened a briefcase to examine his Ingram machine pistol.

  Kalvo was no more pleased by the conduct of Calvin James, who sat in the front seat beside him. The CIA case officer would never have admitted he was prejudiced against blacks, but that was one reason he did not like James. Another reason was because the man was cheerfully humming to himself as he drew the blade of a G-96 Jet-Aer fighting dagger along a sharpening steel.

  "I want you both to know I'm not going to write a favorable report about this business," Kalvo warned.

  "Shee-it," James replied, testing the double-edged blade of his knife with a thumb. "What you wanna get on our case for, man?"

  He used jive because he realized it bothered Kalvo. You don't like us, James thought. So fuck you. He slipped the G-96 into a sheath under his right arm. The scabbard was attached to a Jackass Leather rig, which included a shoulder holster for the Colt Commander under his left arm.

  "You three hotshots are all too trigger happy," the CIA man snapped. "Look at what happened back there! A gun battle in the middle of goddamn Athens — and right out in the streets, too! Is that what you people call keeping a low profile?"