China Crisis (Stony Man)

by Don Pendleton

  “I’ll give it a try.”

  “Talking of money,” Kurtzman said. “I’ve now frozen Townsend out of his accounts. I’ve changed his passwords.”

  “What next?” Brognola asked.

  “All his data has been downloaded, so I’ll wipe his hard drives and leave him with nada.”

  “So,” Price said, “what are we going to do with all that illegal money?”

  “It’s a thought,” Tokaido said with a grin.

  “Aaron could buy a new coffeepot,” Price volunteered.

  “That suggestion sounds appealing to me,” Brognola said. “Okay, people, fantasy time over, let’s get back to work.”

  LYONS AND BLANCANALES HAD followed Hawkins back to Regan’s hacienda. The old Renault they had rented in Port Cristobal looked like most of the other vehicles on the road. Sometime in the past the suspension had nearly quit, so the ride was heavy and they were able to count every rut in the badly maintained road surface. When Hawkins had turned in at the gates of the hacienda, Lyons had driven on and made it around the next bend before pulling off the road and driving the Renault deep into the thick shrubbery. He cut the engine.

  “You see the size of that place?” Blancanales asked.

  “We’re in the wrong business if we want to make money,” Lyons observed, reaching into the back to get to the large bag containing their weapons.

  They were already carrying their handguns. From the bag Lyons extracted a pair of the new P-90s. He handed one to Blancanales and a web belt that held pouches for extra magazines. In addition the belts were equipped with magazines for Blancanales’s 9 mm Beretta, and Lyons had a number of speed loaders for the .357 Colt Python.

  The Able Team commandos were equipped with lightweight communication sets. They had already checked that the units were working.

  Lyons heard the soft ring tone coming from the sat phone he was carrying. He took it out and flipped it open.

  “Yeah?”

  “Satellite scan has picked up an armed group heading your way. Be with you in a couple of minutes.”

  “I’m not sure I should thank you for that.”

  “If you don’t, I’ll understand.”

  Lyons cut the call and relayed what Wethers had told him.

  “Sitting here isn’t the best we can do then?” Blancanales said.

  The receiver in Lyons’s pocket began to beep.

  “That answer your question?” He pushed open his door. “Let’s go and haul T.J.’s ass out of there. I don’t want to be the one telling David his boy got killed on our watch.”

  They cut through the deep foliage in the direction of the low perimeter wall, moving quickly but with caution, because both were clear on how penetration into hostile territory had a habit of escalating from zero to the top of the scale with frightening speed.

  Crouching below the rim of the wall, they took the time to listen, hoping to pick up any peripheral noise. The night was alive with insects, all in the throes of making as much racket as they could.

  “Why the hell do we always pick noisy locations?” Blancanales asked.

  Lyons scowled at him.

  The sound of a footstep caught their attention. It was coming from their left. The continuous tread told the Able Team pair they would have company within seconds. The aroma of cigar smoke added another indication the guy was almost on their position.

  Blancanales risked a look over the top of the wall and saw a lean man cradling an AK-74 in his arms. The man wore dark pants and a loud colored shirt. The cigar that had betrayed his presence was stuck between his lips. As the guy moved past, they heard the soft hiss of a transceiver hooked to his belt.

  Rising to his feet Blancanales hopped over the wall, landing lightly. Yet even that was enough to alert the guard. He began to turn, unlimbering the cradled AK. Blancanales refused to give him any slack, slashing the P-90 across the side of the guy’s head. The cigar flew from his lips, sparks trailing. The man followed them down, striking the ground hard. Blancanales stood over him and hit him again.

  Lyons joined his teammate. Through the heavy spread of tropical, lush vegetation, they could see the outline of the hacienda, lights glowing behind the windows. They crouched and made for the foliage fronting the house. They had seen the spread of light from the security lamps fixed along the roofline, but as long as they remained within the cover of the vegetation they might remain unseen.

  Raindrops slapped against the greenery around them. The drops were overtaken by a sudden, heavy downpour that increased the noise level intensely. It took less than thirty seconds before Lyons and Blancanales were soaked.

  Lyons almost collided with the second guard as the man was talking into his transceiver. Before he could complete what he was saying Lyons slugged him with the P-90. The man, Xavier, fell to his knees, blood pouring from his mouth. Lyons stepped behind him, dropped the P-90 over his head and yanked it back against the guy’s throat. The Ironman slammed a hard knee into the base of Xavier’s neck, crushing down hard with the rifle. Xavier started to gag, spitting blood, his arms reaching over his shoulders to claw at Lyons torso He fought for long seconds before his life ebbed away, kicking to the last. As the guy went slack, Lyons released his hold and Xavier collapsed to the rain-sodden ground.

  YARDS AWAY Rosario Blancanales, moving closer to the house, spotted a third guard. The guy had his weapon in the firing position, and it was obvious he had picked up on one of the transceiver bursts that something was wrong. Crouching in the dripping foliage, rain pounding down out of the dark sky, Blancanales watched his man get closer. He ignored the hard beat of the torrential downpour and let the guy come almost level before he lunged to his feet, swinging the assault rifle up and around to stun the man. He almost made it, but at the last moment the target became aware of a close presence and jerked back.

  Blancanales realized he wasn’t going to get the right amount of power to put his man down, but it was too late to pull back. The impact of the assault rifle was reduced as the guard hauled back, and the blow was more glancing than full impact. It knocked the guy off balance, twisting him so he was facing away from Blancanales when his finger jerked back on the trigger of his AK, sending a sharp burst into the side of the house and through one of the windows.

  Blancanales sensed the guy pulling himself under control, arcing the muzzle of his weapon back on line. He dropped to one knee, swiveling the P-90 across his body, and held the guy in his sights for scant seconds before he pulled the trigger. The 5.7 mm slugs ripped into the guy’s torso, throwing him backward. He thumped to the ground hard, his AK spilling from his hands in his final moments before his ravaged body began a rapid slide into death.

  T.J.H AWKINS TOOK a running dive into the tangled foliage, landing and rolling under cover. He could hear the repeated bursts from Chomski’s SPAS. The shotgun charges ripped through the lush greenery, showering Hawkins with shredded leaves and twigs. He stayed on his stomach, dragging himself deeper into cover, knowing that pursuit would be hard on his heels.

  Ralph Chomski wouldn’t allow his quarry to get away.

  Twisting onto his back, Hawkins sat up, peering through the foliage at the house. The sheeting rain blurred the image but it was no exaggeration to say Chomski was firing at everything he could see, whether it was a legitimate target or not.

  Hunching over the SIG-Sauer, Hawkins checked the magazine. It was full. He eased back the slide to see if there was a round in the port. There was. Pushing to his feet, the Phoenix Force commando was about to move off when he caught a glimpse of someone with pale blond hair moving in his direction.

  It was Carl Lyons. The head of Able Team, armed with a P-90, was soaked to the skin from the downpour. He took note of Hawkins’s bloody features by the light from one of the security lamps.

  “What did you do? Criticize the evening meal?”

  “They’re a touchy bunch in there.”

  “T.J., they have reinforcements coming in, right behind us.”

 
; Lyons moved forward as he caught a glimpse of Blancanales heading for the hacienda’s front door.

  “Hell, he must think you’re still in there. Pol. Haul back. T.J.’s already—”

  Lyons suddenly realized he was talking into a dead unit. He looked down and saw the loose, thin wire from the microphone. It had been pulled free and Lyons realized it had to have happened during his clash with the man he had taken down. He remembered the clawing hands of the choking guard, reaching up over his shoulders in a desperate attempt to stay alive. The man had to have hooked his fingers in the wire during the struggle.

  Without another word Lyons cut across the open space between the foliage and the house, his P-90 up and ready.

  “I can’t believe I’m going back inside,” Hawkins muttered as he angled around toward the side of the house.

  BLANCANALES HIT THE FRONT DOOR with his foot, kicking it wide, then ducking inside as he scanned the interior. The moment he cleared the frame he dropped to a crouch and moved to one side, the muzzle of his P-90 tracking ahead.

  A rush of sound caught his attention and Blancanales turned, picking up one of Regan’s security men emerging from beneath an arch. The guy was equipped with an AK, and he swung the assault rifle in the direction of the intruder. Already on track, Blancanales’s P-90 crackling sharply, the burst ripping into the guy midtorso. He fell back with a howl, his own weapon discharging into the ceiling.

  Blancanales flattened against the inner wall, hearing the slap of feet against the tiled floor. Shadows bounced ahead of the rushing figures, signaling their approach.

  To Blancanales’s right Carl Lyons loomed large in the open doorway, his timing as perfect as it could be. He met the rush of armed figures as they came into view, and the area exploded in an exchange of gunfire that shredded any peace that might have reigned only minutes before.

  “JESUS CHRIST,” Riotta screamed.

  He turned aimlessly, his arms flailing as he made uncoordinated attempts to ward off the sudden racket from weapons around him. He was the least experienced in the room when it came to being under fire. In fact he had never been under fire before in his life, and the experience unnerved him completely. Panic set in and Riotta tried to escape. He scuttled in the direction of the closest wall, huddling against it and attempted to slide toward the door.

  AS HE SAW T. J. HAWKINS cutting around the side of the hacienda and realizing what he was doing, Ralph Chomski swung away from his firing point at the window and turned back into the room. The front of the house had become a combat zone, with a number of weapons firing at the same time. Chomski thrust his hand into his pocket where he had jammed extra shells for his shotgun and began to slot them into the SPAS. With the weapon reloaded Chomski chambered the first round, lunging across the room. He intended to be there to face Hawkins when he reentered the house.

  Chomski crouched low, using furniture for cover, and crossed the room, finally ducking behind the cover of a room divider. He ran along the passage that would bring him to the door Hawkins might use to make his entry. He heard a footfall behind him and spun around.

  It was Rik Brandt. The man held up a warning hand.

  “Easy, buddy, it’s me.” Brandt held his pistol in his big left hand.

  “Hawkins cut around this side of the house. If that bastard gets back inside, I want his ass.”

  “You and me both.” Brandt paused, his slow thought process taking a moment to clarify. “They busted us, Ralph?”

  “If we don’t walk out of here alive, I’d say yeah. Now stop thinking and help me nail this little shit.”

  The target door burst open, rain sheeting in from the storm outside. Brandt turned his gun on the opening, triggering a couple of shots before he realized no one was there.

  “Easy, Rik,” Chomski warned.

  His warning went unheeded. Brandt moved forward, his pistol probing ahead of him, caution cast aside in his need to locate his target.

  “Rik,” Chomski yelled.

  A flicker of movement at the lower-left corner of the door preceded the muzzle-flash as Hawkins fired, the SIG-Sauer angled up at Brandt’s bulk. The 9 mm slugs cored into the man’s lower torso and up into his chest cavity, clipping organs and blood vessels. Bleeding internally, Brandt stepped back, fell against the open door and went down on his knees and onto his face.

  “You son of a bitch,” Chomski screamed, triggering the SPAS.

  He saw the dark outline of Hawkins’s body as the Phoenix Force pro pulled back from the door. Chomski held back, refusing to be drawn.

  There was a scuffle of sound to his left. Chomski glanced around and saw Riotta. The man was in a total panic, his face sickly white, eyes wide. He came at Chomski in a rush, flailing the air with his hands as if to ward off the crackle of gunfire.

  “Get me out of here,” Riotta screamed.

  “Find a fucking place to hide if you can’t face it.”

  Chomski had no time for Riotta. The man wasn’t going to be of any use. He was almost a gibbering wreck. As Riotta lurched up to Chomski, reaching to claw at his sleeve, Chomski reached out to push him away. Riotta stumbled against Brandt’s slumped body. He looked down and saw the bloody marks of death.

  Chomski saw what was coming as Riotta recoiled from the body, colliding with the door frame. He looked at the opening and before Chomski could make any kind of move to restrict him, Riotta pushed away from the frame and went out into the darkness.

  HAWKINS SAW RIOTTA as the man burst through the door, reeling as the full effect of the downpour hit him. The drenching force of the rain halted Riotta in midstride, his mouth open as he reacted to the chill of the heavy rain.

  In that frozen moment Hawkins caught a glimpse of Chomski behind Riotta. Chomski seemed to hesitate briefly, as if he was making a decision, then he ducked behind the blocking bulk of Riotta and Hawkins knew the guy was making his play. Chomski had chosen to use Riotta as cover while he broke through the door, his intention to catch Hawkins off guard.

  Hawkins saw the man pushing through the open door, his SPAS arcing around to shoot as he cleared Riotta’s covering outline. He might have made it if Riotta hadn’t snapped out of his frozen pose, twisting his body as he made a dash away from the hacienda.

  Chomski realized his cover had moved, leaving him exposed, and his intended action revealed. He shook his head to clear the rain from his face, eyes searching for Hawkins.

  What he saw was Hawkins’s SIG-Sauer, the muzzle dropping into target acquisition.

  “You’re mine,” Chomski screamed, defiant to the last, and emphasized his words by jerking the SPAS toward Hawkins.

  He was a microsecond too late as the P-226 exploded with sound. Hawkins fired hard and fast, triggering three shots that impacted with Chomski’s skull. The force kicked him back and slammed him against the wall. The SPAS blew its shot skyward before the weapon slipped from Chomski’s loose grasp. He toppled sideways and his already shattered and bloody skull thudded hard against the ground.

  Moving forward, Hawkins scooped up the SPAS, working the slide to jack another shell into the breech, then turned on his heel and went in through the open door.

  REGAN HEARD his transceiver crackle. He put it to his ear. “Speak to me.”

  “Manolo. I hear shooting.”

  “No shit, bubba, where are you?”

  “Here. At the gate.”

  “There are three of them. They hit us hard,” Regan stated.

  Before he cut the transmission Regan heard Manolo yelling at his men. He dropped the transceiver and turned as he picked up sound close by. It was his surviving security man, clutching a shattered and bloody arm.

  “They’re inside. We couldn’t stop them.”

  “Where’s your fuckin’ gun?”

  “I lost it when I fell.”

  Regan backed away from the man, merging with the shadows, trying not to dwell on what was turning into one gigantic mess. His security force was decimated, his safe house turned into a battle zone. This wa
sn’t the way it was supposed to happen. Up until a few days back the whole operation had been working well. His association with Townsend and Shadow had earned Regan a great deal of money, especially the Chinese connection. All the bases were covered. Which went to show nothing should be taken for granted. Now everything was going to hell in a hand basket, and Regan wasn’t happy with that.

  As Regan worked his way through the house toward the rear, his mind worked busily, calculating the odds of getting away free and clear. He envied Pete Tilman. Receiving Regan’s call would have enabled Tilman to make his own break and get out from under with comparative ease. Regan hoped that Tilman made it. In a world of mistrust and divided loyalties Tilman was one of the very few Regan could call a real friend. They had walked through hell together and come out the other side virtually unscathed. No matter the divergence of their ways over the years, they always remained faithful to each other.

  With the crackle of autofire in the background Regan pushed through a door that led off the kitchen, bolting it behind him, traveled along a narrow passage and down a short flight of steps. Another door opened to the garage. He secured the door once he went through. Regan flicked a switch and a single fluorescent flickered into life.

  A black civilian Hummer was the only thing in the garage. It was fully gassed up, with extra fuel cans secured in the rear, along with a pack of MREs—Meals Ready to Eat—and water. On the rear seat were two large carry-alls. One held clothing, the other a laptop computer, its hard drive containing Regan’s detailed database. In there was a comprehensive list of his global contacts and sources. It made interesting reading. Jack Regan had contacts in both high and low places—industrial, military, political. Alongside the laptop were a couple of extra pistols and loaded magazines. In a sealed, solid package was a quarter of a million U.S. dollars.