He ejected the magazine from his weapon and reached for another from his belt. Just as he started to feed the fresh magazine, something big registered in his peripheral vision. Before he could turn his head to look, he felt something slam into his side and knock him from his feet.
The M-4 slipped from his fingers and he heard it thud against the ground. He struck the dirt, one arm pinned beneath him. One of al-Jaballah’s thugs had knocked him over and was now straddling him. The guy’s fist was drawn back by his ear, poised to rock Manning with a blow to the head. The punch rocketed forward. Manning threw up an arm to block it. The man’s fist collided with Manning’s forearm. Bolts of pain burst out from the point of impact. Manning belched a lungful of air through his gritted teeth.
The guy on top of him was big. Something was tattooed in a black script that Manning didn’t recognize on the dome of the man’s shaved head. The Phoenix Force warrior chopped down on his opponent’s collar bone and heard a snapping noise, like a stick breaking. The thug’s jaw dropped open and his eyes widened. Manning struck the guy in the same spot, eliciting a scream from him. He threw another punch at Manning, striking the Phoenix Force commando in the jaw and snapping his head to the right.
The Iranian had shifted his weight enough that Manning was able to maneuver off his right hip and free his trapped arm. As he pulled his arm free, he snatched the Gerber knife on his belt from its holster and drove the blade into the other man’s thigh until it skittered off the man’s femur. Manning gave the blade a hard pull, and the razor-sharp steel sliced through muscles and tendons. An agonized scream erupted from his opponent’s mouth. The Iranian rolled off Manning and lay on the ground, writhing in pain, even as one hand slapped around on his hip for his pistol.
Manning drew his Beretta and squeezed off a single round. The bullet punched into the other man’s forehead, leaving a ragged, dime-size hole before punching through the back of his skull.
Manning climbed to his feet and gathered the M-4.
Then he slipped his hand into his jacket pocket. When he located the detonator, he pulled it out. With his thumb, he flicked two switches, one right after the other. He was rewarded with twin peals of thunder, followed by columns of roiling, orange-yellow flames shooting into the sky. Within minutes the satellite dishes were engulfed in flames.
He activated his throat mike.
“Control center gone,” he said.
“Not to be a killjoy,” Grimaldi said, “but we need to get in the air and over the border. If they don’t have reinforcements on the way, they will soon.”
“Roger that,” Manning said. “I’m heading your way. Everyone else should do the same.”
The other Stony Man warriors voiced their understanding and the radio fell silent. Manning turned to have one last look at the fire before starting for the helipad.
He spotted a man lumbering toward him. The guy was clutching a pistol in his hand and lining up a shot at Manning.
The Canadian whipped forward the assault rifle’s muzzle. Jagged muzzle-flashes spit from the weapon. Bullets crossed the distance between the two men, tearing into the gut of Manning’s opponent and driving the man to the ground.
Baghdad, Iraq
AL-ABUDDIN BYPASSED THE elevator and moved for the nearest stairwell. The last thing he wanted at this stage was to be cooped up in a box, where the security teams could hit the emergency stop on the elevator and leave him stuck.
Shutting the stairwell door behind him, he reached his hand under his jacket and wrapped his fingers around the grip of the Uzi hidden beneath his specially tailored jacket. In his other hand he carried a suitcase filled with a sound suppressor and several clips of ammunition. He surged up the stairs, taking two steps at a time.
When he reached the top floor, he was barely winded. He’d spent months training his mind and body for this moment. And, though the arrival of the American and the mouthy Briton was unwelcome, it wasn’t totally unexpected, especially after they’d burned through operations in Mexico, Africa and now the Middle East.
He tried to shake it off. There was nothing he could do but stick to the plan and hope it worked.
He pulled the Uzi from the rig under his jacket and lowered himself to one knee. From inside the briefcase he pulled out the sound suppressor, threaded it onto the SMG’s muzzle and set the weapon aside. Next he pulled additional magazines from the case and stuffed them into his pockets. Grabbing the Uzi, he rose, pressed the release bar on the security door and moved through it. He’d taken maybe a half dozen steps when a U.S. Marine in camouflage fatigues stepped into view. One hand was resting on the grip of his sidearm and he held up the other hand, palm forward, gesturing for al-Abuddin to halt. When the Marine’s eyes lighted on al-Abuddin’s weapon, it was too late. The Iranian raised the Uzi and had it at hip level before the other Marine could clear his holster. The Uzi coughed out a short burst that savaged the man’s torso before he collapsed to the floor in a dead heap.
Al-Abuddin stepped up to the fallen American. Kneeling next to the Marine, he grabbed the security card that hung from an olive-green lanyard around the man’s neck and pulled it free. Before al-Abuddin could get to his feet, a second Marine stepped into the corridor. The Beretta 92 cracked twice. The slugs slashed through the air just over al-Abuddin’s head. Holding his ground, he fired off another fast burst from the Uzi that chewed into the American’s thighs. The guy let out an agonized scream and dropped to his knees. Al-Abuddin cut loose with another burst from the Uzi. This time, the bullets cored through the man’s torso and killed him.
Al-Abuddin rose to standing and raced down the corridor.
He heard no signs that sounds from the brief firefight had reached the individuals on the rooftop, though he couldn’t be sure.
Another stairwell, this one accessible through a sealed door, led to the Embassy roof and the anti-aircraft batteries there. Swiping the card, he pulled the door open and swept the Uzi’s muzzle over the narrow corridor, but found it empty.
He surged up the stairs to a second door at the top. He unlocked it, slipped out onto the roof and ran in a crouch to one of the rooftop air conditioners. Kneeling next to the big machine, he peered around the corner at a pair of Marines. Both stood at the edge of the roof, one guzzling from a plastic bottle of water, the other checking the horizon through a pair of binoculars. Three MANPADS—Man Portable Air Defense Systems—were arranged on the ground. The shoulder-to-air missiles were within easy reach of the Americans.
Al-Abuddin aimed the Uzi at the unsuspecting men. His finger curled around the trigger.
* * *
MCCARTER BURST THROUGH the stairwell door and saw the carnage the Iraqi had left in his wake. Two Marines, their bodies ravaged by bullets, lay on the ground, each in a pool of blood. Instinct and experience told him both men were dead. He saw no signs that either man was breathing. The former SAS commando muttered an oath and keyed his throat mike.
“I have two men down,” he said.
“Roger,” Hawkins replied. “Al-Abuddin?”
“Nowhere to be seen.”
“Damn. You need me up there?”
“Negative,” McCarter said. He was gliding along the wall, moving for the doors leading to the roof. “Just make sure the rest of the riffraff stays downstairs.”
“Good luck,” Hawkins said before signing off.
As McCarter passed by the fallen warriors, a cold rage overtook him. He felt at once detached from the bloodshed, as though he just was observing it, even as it focused his mind and sparked a rush of adrenaline that coursed through his body.
The Iranian had left the door to the roof ajar. McCarter moved up next to it, stole a glance around the jamb and verified that the stairwell was empty. Moving up the stairs, he kept the MP-5’s muzzle trained on the door, even as he threw an occasional glance over his shoulder to make sure his six w
as clear of threats.
When he was about halfway up the stairs, he heard someone cry out in surprise and pain from the rooftop. Biting off an angry curse, he surged up the remaining steps to the rooftop door, which had been left open.
Pausing, he chanced a look through the doorway before darting onto the roof. The Iraqi sun was brilliant, glinting off the steel housings of the multiple air-conditioning units arrayed on the rooftop, each one emitting a loud hum. He slipped on his sunglasses and exited the Embassy. The heat struck him immediately, warming the top of his head, his shoulders, snatching the sweat from his skin as soon as it exited his pores.
After the initial blast of heat, McCarter was only vaguely aware of it. Finding his target consumed his attention. Crossing the roof, he slid into the narrow passage that lay between the AC units and traversed its length, stopping just before he ran out of cover. He peered out from cover and saw the Iranian, the tricked-out Uzi in his hand, muzzle pointed skyward, standing a couple dozen yards away. Though the guy was facing McCarter, he was looking down at the corpses at his feet, likely admiring his handiwork. Shell casings lay on the ground just a few feet from where the Phoenix Force commando now was crouched. He guessed the bastard had stepped from hiding and scythed the two men down in a merciless storm of lead.
The Briton eased himself to standing and leveled the MP-5. He watched as, with his free hand, his target plucked a phone from his belt.
“Afraid the call will have to wait,” McCarter said, stepping from cover.
The guy’s head snapped up, his face a mask of shock. He already was bringing his Uzi down and sprinting to his right.
McCarter stroked the MP-5’s trigger. Jagged yellow muzzle-flashes lashed out from the weapon. The heavy spray of bullets savaged the guy’s chest and stomach, caused the killer’s body to jerk under the barrage before his shredded form dropped to the rooftop.
McCarter rolled up on the guy and kicked the fallen Uzi away from his hand.
Kneeling next to him, McCarter saw the phone in the man’s grip. Peeling open his fingers, he picked up the phone and started to examine the screen. Before his eyes could focus, a cold sensation raced down his spine in spite of the desert heat. He jerked his head up in time to see another man, this one armed with a grease gun of some sort, trying to line up a shot at McCarter.
He squeezed off a quick burst that sent the other guy scrambling. McCarter tossed aside the phone, figuring he could pick it up later, and moved across the rooftop, eyes searching for the other man. He moved into the maze of exposed ductwork winding its way around the rooftop. Motion to his right caught his attention. He spun in time to see his opponent burst into view from behind one of the AC units, his SMG spitting bullets.
Rounds tore into the rooftop a few yards in front of McCarter. He spun toward his opponent, the H&K chattering through the contents of its magazine. The fusillade of bullets went low, chewing into the guy’s thighs. He jerked crazily under the onslaught for a stretched second before falling to the rooftop. McCarter moved in on the shooter, changing out magazines as he did. The man was in motion, his hand scrambling to free a pistol from its holster. The MP-5 rattled again and the man was dead.
Manning’s voice buzzed in his ear.
“The UAV is gone,” he said.
“What?” McCarter said.
“It’s in the air.”
“On its way here?”
“What do you think?”
“Damn it,” McCarter replied. “Can you get to the pilots?”
“Working on it. What if I can’t, though? Can you bring it down?”
McCarter scowled. “Sure,” he said. “I’ll throw a bloody rock at it and pray.”
“I’ll take that as a maybe.”
“Just deal with the pilots. Hawkins and I will handle things on our end. Right, T.J.?”
“Right,” Hawkins replied.
* * *
MCCARTER BEGAN WALKING across the Embassy roof toward the Stinger missiles the Marines had stockpiled.
As he moved, he keyed his throat mike again. “Hawkins, where the hell are you?”
A second passed, then two. McCarter muttered a curse, but kept moving. He was worried as hell about Hawkins, worried the guy might be captured or injured somewhere inside the building below. Hell, his American friend might be dying, for all McCarter knew.
The Briton shoved those thoughts from his mind. He was worried, yeah. But he needed to focus on the mission first. It was the only choice a soldier could make. He’d expect—hell, demand—that the other Phoenix Force warriors would do the same.
Which didn’t make him feel a damn bit better about it.
Kneeling next to one of the dead Marines, he reached for the guy’s binoculars, which had fallen to the roof. Apparently one of the bullets that had pierced the guy’s chest had torn apart the strap on his binoculars.
Now I’m stealing equipment from dead Marines, McCarter chided himself. Aren’t I a bloody prize?
“Sorry, lad,” he muttered.
And the Marine was just that. McCarter guessed he was eighteen, old enough to serve his country but too damn young to die like this. The Stony Man warrior felt a flash of anger burn hot before he squelched it. He’d deal with this later. He’d killed the shooter, yeah. But given the chance, he’d burn down the man who’d started all this carnage.
First, he needed to make sure the bastards failed, though. Then came the nasty part.
Peering through the binoculars, he swept them over the sky. A small black dot hovered on the horizon, invisible at that distance to the unaided eye. He guessed it was the UAV, but he couldn’t be sure.
Setting aside the binoculars, he switched the channel on his com link and via satellite contacted Stony Man Farm through an encrypted channel.
“Go, David,” Barbara Price said.
“I have control of the roof,” McCarter said. “I have a visual on a bogey, but I can’t identify it. If it’s not a friendly, I need to take it down. Can you advise?”
“I’ll patch us into U.S. Central Command. Someone’s monitoring the airspace. They probably already have seen it and can advise. Give me a minute.”
“Don’t have a minute,” McCarter growled.
“Give me what you can,” Price said. “Stand by.”
While he waited, McCarter hefted the Stinger, which weighed more than thirty pounds, onto his shoulder, rose to his full height and activated the targeting apparatus. By now he could see the craft without the help of the binoculars. Some primitive part of his brain knew he was at ground zero; that he was seconds away from death. A surge of adrenaline rushed through him, caused his jaw to clench and his muscles to tense. He sucked in a deep breath; exhaled to override it. The last thing he could afford right now was to act out of self-preservation and risk shooting down a friendly aircraft.
At the same time, the craft had drawn closer and he knew it didn’t have to be on top of him to unleash its deadly payload.
After what seemed like an eternity, Price came back on the line. “It’s not one of ours,” she said. “They’re checking with the Iraqis.”
“Damn it,” he growled.
“I know, David. Sorry.”
He turned on the targeting mechanism and began to line up his shot.
A few seconds later Price said, “Confirmed as unauthorized.”
“Roger.”
A high-pitched whine began to emanate from the Stinger’s targeting system, telling McCarter that he had a clear shot. He triggered the weapon. The missile hissed out from the tube and sliced a path across the sky. McCarter could follow its exhaust trail without the binoculars.
The missile slammed into the UAV. The Briton heard a muffled explosion as flames engulfed the craft. The fire ignited the fuel tank and sparked a second explosion that disintegrated the drone. M
cCarter set the launcher on the rooftop and made his way back into the Embassy.
As he descended the stairs, he activated his throat mike and summoned Manning.
“Sitrep,” McCarter said.
“We have the facility under control,” Manning said.
“Boudri?”
“Dead.”
“You have any guests?”
“Negative. We didn’t find anyone in the surrendering mood today.”
“Understood.”
“Grabbed a couple of laptops and mobile phones from anyone we identified as a high-value target. Those may have some information value to us. Why?”
“We still need to find al-Jaballah. Otherwise, we’ve only done half the job.”
“Agreed.”
“Since we don’t have anyone to interview, we should get Kurtzman and his people to access the data on the computers and phones as soon as possible. Come back here and we’ll start shoveling that stuff back to Wonderland as soon as possible.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Ajunta, Nigeria
Al-Jaballah heard a sharp cracking sound from outside his villa. Gunshot! Without thinking, he spun toward the door. His hand dropped to the grip of the Walther .380 holstered on his right hip, his heart hammered in his chest and he stared at the door, expecting it to burst inward.
It took a stretched second for his mind to interpret and recognize the noise for what it was—the backfire from a passing car’s exhaust. His face and neck flushed hot with embarrassment. He snapped a look at two of his guards. They stared at him with stony expressions.
“What are you looking at?” he snapped.
One of the guards muttered an apology, and both turned their eyes from al-Jaballah. A toxic mix of fear and anger swirled in the Iranian. He was losing their respect. He saw it in their eyes. Once he lost their respect, could treason be far behind? Without fear—of him, of the ayatollahs, of something greater than themselves—why listen to him? Take a bullet for him?
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