CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Athens, Greece
Alan Demopolis had been in-country with the U.S. State Department less than two years.
For a low-ranking assistant in the diplomatic corps to act as a buyer for U.S. technical interests wouldn’t have been the normal course of things, but in this instance it only made sense. The American government couldn’t risk using anybody from high up in the ranks in case Madari’s play turned out to be a pretext to a more nefarious plan. So they were stuck with Demopolis, which forced Phoenix Force to work with him, as well.
McCarter, determined to the make the best of the political situation, made contact with Demopolis as soon as they reached Athens and scheduled to meet him at a place of the diplomatic assistant’s choosing.
McCarter had initially planned to meet him alone while the rest of Phoenix Force provided perimeter security, but then thought better of it and opted to take Encizo along for backup. There wasn’t any reason to think Madari knew Phoenix Force was in Greece, or that he meant harm to Demopolis. But after everything that had happened in Belarus, McCarter didn’t plan to take chances, and it never hurt to have a second team member who knew the play in case the team leader fell.
McCarter and Encizo found Demopolis at the time and place specified; a café on one of the secondary roads in an older, nondescript section of the city. Demopolis was enjoying a strong cup of coffee and midway through a rather generous helping of baklava when they arrived. He gestured for them to take seats at the little four-top across from him. McCarter and Encizo studied their surroundings from behind sunglasses, watchful for anyone who might be taking other than casual notice of the trio.
Demopolis fit right into the local crowd, the Greek roots obvious in his dark hair and eyes. He didn’t have the swarthy complexion bronzed by many years in the Mediterranean sun, but that didn’t mean anything. From where McCarter sat, the guy could easily have passed as a native and he could see why the state department had chosen Demopolis for this post, if not the reasons for his selection to act as buyer.
As if reading McCarter’s thoughts, he opened the conversation with a smile. “I’m not what you expected.”
“Not really,” McCarter admitted.
“It’s not an insult. You’re McMasters?”
McCarter nodded and gestured to Encizo. “This is Mr. Castiano.”
Demopolis extended his hand to shake theirs in turn, and then cut into a fresh helping of the flaky, gooey dessert. “Can’t get enough of this,” he said around a mouthful. After offering to order some for the pair, who declined, and washing it down with the coffee, Demopolis dabbed at his mouth with the napkin and said, “So I assume you’ve been briefed?”
McCarter confirmed with nod.
Demopolis continued. “It probably goes without saying I know exactly what this is about. I’ve been read in and I can tell you I’m pretty stoked they picked me to do this.”
“First time?”
Demopolis nodded. “Yeah, but we’re all trained for this. In fact, I took some additional classes with the DSS at Quantico.”
That bit of news impressed McCarter. Not every assistant went through the rigors of training with the diplomatic security service. While Demopolis was still a novice, for him to have even chosen to take the training marked him as a reliable asset—much more reliable than most men in his position. The choice to have him serve as bidder for the U.S. interests was beginning to make sense.
Not that it would matter, as McCarter pointed out when he said, “I assume you also know why we’re here.”
Demopolis nodded. “Make sure we get what we came for.”
“And?” Encizo prompted.
“If we don’t get what we came for, then you guys are here to take it and I’m just supposed to duck.”
“So we understand each other,” McCarter said.
Demopolis’s smile lacked warmth. “Like I say, McMasters, I may still be a rookie to the diplomatic game but this isn’t exactly my first day on the job. The only thing they didn’t tell me is exactly what sort of technology we were bidding on. They told me the other players, though, so it wasn’t too far of a stretch to gather it was important. Between that and the cross chatter on the other channels, I’m sure it has something to do with electromagnetic pulse weapons—”
“EMPs?” Encizo cut in. “What makes you think so?”
“Come on!”
“Shh!” McCarter said, beginning to feel snappish. There were things about Demopolis that irritated him. “Damp down, will you? We don’t need to take out a bloody ad.”
“Sorry,” Demopolis said, lowering his voice immediately. “But the word’s out all over the place about Oleg Dratshev’s abduction. The entire European theater is crawling with Russian FSB.”
“That’s not good,” Encizo said, jerking a thumb in Demopolis’s direction. “If he knows about that…”
Encizo’s voice trailed off and McCarter just nodded. His friend didn’t have to finish the thought because he already knew what it meant. Word had gotten out about Dratshev through all of the official channels now. That meant if the governments bidding on the technology knew about it, and the diplomatic community knew about it, then David Steinham’s people definitely knew about it. All the players would now be in the game, and their choice to let Steinham’s mercenary team off the hook and send them packing had just become a critical error in judgment. There was little doubt in McCarter’s mind that might go against them sooner rather than later.
The Phoenix Force leader said to Demopolis, “Whether you’re right about what you’re bidding on, I can’t confirm. What I can say is that it’s our job to make sure it doesn’t fall into the hands of a competitor. We’re authorized to destroy it in that eventuality.”
“And we take our job pretty seriously,” Encizo added.
“Which means,” McCarter said, “that when the moment comes and we tell you to get out of the way it would be a really good idea for you to listen to us.”
“Sounds fair enough,” Demopolis said. “But until that time comes I’ve been informed I’m in charge and nobody has the authority to override me.”
McCarter splayed his hands. “Look, mate, we don’t have any intention of—”
A squelch in McCarter’s ear followed by Hawkins’s voice cut him short. “Heads up, boss. We got big trouble right here in River City.”
McCarter keyed the transmitter clipped on his belt. “You want to be more specific?”
“Get down!”
McCarter and Encizo went toward the fancy tile patio of the café, each grabbing a lapel on Demopolis’s jacket on the way down. Had the warning come any later, all three of them would’ve been ventilated by the autofire that burned the air around them. One poor bystander who’d just been lifting a cup to his lips couldn’t escape the odds and his skull split open under the impact of several high-velocity slugs.
McCarter winced as he saw the guy’s body flop in the seat, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. Fortunately the brick facade took most of the brunt, and those inside the café were spared the fate of this man. McCarter pushed it from his mind as he whipped his Browning Hi-Power 9 mm from shoulder leather and turned to assess individual target locations.
That’s when he realized the assault had been swift because the attackers were on motorcycles.
* * *
THEY RODE A pair to each motorcycle for a total of twelve enemy combatants, the front positions driving while the back sprayed the café and courtyard area around it with bullets.
The gunners were utterly indiscriminate, careless of who or what they shot up as long as they managed to bring down McCarter, Encizo and Demopolis. Phoenix Force wasn’t going to let that happen. Hawkins had no idea where they’d come from or who they worked for, but obviously their attempts at secrecy had been frustr
ated once more. Immediately after he’d shouted the warning to McCarter and Encizo, the trio answered the call to action.
James broke his concealment behind a high stand of rosebushes in a planter in front of a clothing store across the small plaza from the café, his Beretta 93R ready for action. He took up position near a stone fountain, braced his forearms against a pillar and sighted to lead one of the motorcycles as he thumbed the safety to triburst mode.
James stroked the trigger, maintaining a rock-steady hold on his pistol as it bucked with the release of three successive 9 mm Parabellum rounds. The hits were on target, two catching the gunner on the back of the motorcycle in the torso and the third cracking his helmet. The impact flung the gunner’s body, upsetting the delicate balance of the motorcycle and sending it to a skidding halt.
* * *
MANNING HAD BEEN watching the action from the high point of a restroom window on a second floor. He immediately whipped the compact sniper rifle from his bag and assembled it in under ten seconds—a new record for the Canadian marksman—completing the assembly by hammering home a magazine with capacity for eight rounds of 7.62 mm.
Manning eased the rifle barrel out the window, having to put his booted feet on the toilet seat to gain a clear view. James had brought down one motorcycle team from his position and as Manning put his eye to the scope he watched as Hawkins neatly dispatched a second.
The Phoenix Force warriors on perimeter watch had been able to take down the attackers with some success because of their distance, and because the enemy hadn’t expected such a response. McCarter and Encizo, however, were pinned down by a constant barrage of enemy bullets and a well-coordinated attack. Manning knew he’d have to equalize the situation if his friends stood a chance of coming out the other end of it.
Manning put his cheek to the cool, polished stock, engaged the scope and acquired his first target. Given windage and lead time, and the relative speed of the motorcycles, Manning held no delusions his skills would need to be above par. The next few minutes would likely prove some of the most challenging of his career. Manning pushed nagging doubts about being up to the task from his mind as his finger rested on the trigger.
A moment later the first round left the barrel of the rifle at a muzzle velocity of nearly 1600 fps. The bullet cut into the fuel line and sparked off the tank. A moment of eerie quiet went by, at least quiet from Manning’s position, before the motorcycle burst into a flaming rocket on a path that terminated with a storefront wall.
Manning had already rocked the bolt on the rifle and chambered a live round before the first enemy motorcycle completed its fiery path. He sighted on the next target, took a deep breath and let half out before squeezing the trigger. It looked like a miss but when the motorcycle kept on a forward path instead of turning to avoid one of the walls containing a fountain pool, and the wheel struck the wall and sent the two riders flying into the unyielding marble with a bone-crunching splash, Manning felt merely grim satisfaction with the results.
* * *
THOMAS JACKSON HAWKINS engaged his own attackers just a moment after James took the first pair. He produced a SIG P-239 and burst out the door of the boutique where he’d occupied a corner table with a perfect view of the café. The swiftness of the attack might have taken a lesser observer by surprise, but not a Delta Force combat veteran like Hawkins. The Texan had a keen eye and honed reflexes and his warning had unarguably saved the lives of his teammates.
Now they were pinned down and he would have to step it up one more level—or maybe by a factor of ten. In any case, their enemies knew they were up against determination and experience, and Hawkins was about to reinforce that point for them. He raised the P-239 and squeezed the trigger twice on the motorcycle crew as they passed by, their attention focused entirely on their targets.
The pair of rounds was delivered in a way that made perfect sense from a tactical perspective. The first caught the driver in the torso between a pair of ribs. It continued into a lung and forced a bloody spray from his mouth, completely obscuring the visor. The second round, despite its intended target, smashed through the gap between the helmet and right shoulder of the rider with enough force to drive him off the bike entirely just before it rolled onto its side and came to a smashing stop—now uncontrolled with a lifeless operator—by the plate-glass window of a sewing shop.
* * *
IN LESS THAN a minute the vicious assault by a half dozen motorcycles had been cut to just a third of the original force. That did much to bolster the confidence of McCarter and Encizo, who had been pinned down by a fiery metal storm.
McCarter, Hi-Power in play along with Encizo’s Glock 21, took cover behind the low stone wall of the patio of the café. The two put their focus on the closest threat, a pair of intent gunners that had dismounted their motorized steed and were foolishly charging their position, oblivious to the disasters that had befallen their ranks.
McCarter and Encizo opened up simultaneously, pumping a punishingly accurate volley at the charging gunners. The first one fell under several 9 mm zingers to the gut—a testament to Encizo’s resolve and skill—the rounds burning through the man and tearing at the critical coverings of his vital organs. He produced a half shout of pain before drowning in his own blood and skidding chin-first into the pavement.
McCarter got the other with a double-tap to the head that blew the man’s faceplate open. Plastic and fiberglass shattered and his skull, having no place to go, imploded and produced a grisly mess from every available orifice, the result of applying great force to a self-contained entity.
A flash in his peripheral vision caused McCarter to turn to see Demopolis leave the relative safety of the table and patio wall. “Wait!”
It did no good. Demopolis immediately collapsed under the blast of autofire triggered by the surviving pair. These men had seen the demise of their comrades and decided to get off their motorcycle and find the best cover available. They knew the enemy had at least one sniper, placed high and with a pretty good if not somewhat limited field of fire. They also had two more on the ground but not within range. Still, their situation was tenuous and they at least knew they had to do what damage they could before beating it the hell out of there.
McCarter cursed and then looked to his right to see James trying for a better position. The last pair of attackers had managed to settle in and it would prove a pretty good challenge trying to overcome their position. To attempt to rush them in force would have been pure suicide. McCarter had to admit that the surviving enemy gunners had good position.
It was T. J. Hawkins who came up with the answer they needed. The Phoenix Force warrior had wisely brought along a satchel with ordnance from the Stony Man armory. One included a smoker and Hawkins dropped it dead into the middle of the action, filling the narrow plaza surrounded by the shops with a thick haze of blue-gray smoke.
As soon as the smoke spread sufficiently, Hawkins lobbed a second grenade into the fray. It bounced a couple of times and then a cloud of gas burst from the canister, this time under significant pressure. While the CS gas would have been more effective in a closed space, it was close enough to the enemy position to be effective. The noxious gas would drive them into the open. They immediately burst from their cover in an attempt to escape.
Straight into the unerring fire of James, Hawkins, McCarter and Encizo—all four had been waiting for just such an eventuality. They all squeezed off several rounds and the pair of gunners danced like marionettes under the impact of the rounds. The fusillade of fire from the quartet of Phoenix Force warriors struck at every vital point, shredding flesh, cracking bone and puncturing organs.
As the echo from the gunfire died, McCarter rushed to the unmoving form of Demopolis, knelt and checked for a pulse. He didn’t find one, hardly surprising given what appeared to be half a dozen red splotches in the guy’s back. James and Hawkins proceeded quickly but
cautiously to their position, arriving just as McCarter stood.
“Well?” James inquired.
McCarter shook his head.
Encizo said, “Poor bastard.”
The sudden wail of nearby sirens prompted McCarter to say, “Which is exactly what we’re going to be, mates, if we hang around here. Where’s Gary?”
Hawkins jerked a thumb in his general direction. “Sure he won’t try to reconnect with us here given the impending arrival of the cops. We should probably go straight to the rally point.”
As they jogged out of the plaza and headed in the opposite direction of the sirens, Encizo told McCarter, “You realize they’re going to blame us for Demopolis buying the farm.”
“Tough,” McCarter replied. “Wasn’t a bloody thing we could do about it. It’s the CIA who lost control of their agent, not to mention they actually trusted Madari to play fair. They’re keeping one step ahead of us and I, for one, am getting bloody damn tired of being a punching bag for Madari.”
“What do you want to do?” James asked.
“Take all bets off the table. Now we have one mission and one mission only. Destroy Madari and these weapons. From here forward, we take the offensive.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Rural Virginia
The panel truck came to a screeching halt and immediately the Able Team trio aligned the sights of their weapons on the grille between the headlights.
At a signal from Lyons, all three opened up simultaneously and splattered the front of the truck with a hail of destructive hot lead. There was no way they planned to let the enemy escape, especially not one that had bothered to go to such lengths to destroy them. If nothing else, they could gain information and maybe such intelligence would help them peg down exactly who they were up against and why they were having such a hard time keeping this mission out of the public eye.
The sparks, telltale signs of the effective firestorm, were much more evident once the lights of the panel truck succumbed to the metal-smashing effects of 5.56 mm and 7.62 mm fire from the automatic rifles wielded by Able Team.
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