Trying not to show it, Caramico was impressed. These men were moving in a combat formation, watching each other’s backs as if on a battlefield. She assumed the mercenaries were armed, but couldn’t tell it from their stance or clothing. There were no bulges under their loose jackets or telltale slumping of the shoulders from carrying heavy ordnance. Yet the mercs had to be carrying machine pistols, or something bigger. They seemed far too confident of being able to handle any trouble to be armed with only automatic pistols.
Mentally, the lieutenant reviewed the data sheet faxed for her by Snake Eater to the local library. Based in the state capital, the three mercs called themselves Trinity, after the nuclear bomb project built way back in the 1940s. She found that amusing. The tall bald man was Mike Potvin, his shaved head gleaming from the stage lights so that it almost appeared as if he had a halo. The handsome man smiled a lot, talked little, and was wanted in four countries for a wide variety of crimes, ranging from kidnapping to arson. He had escaped twice from federal prison, killing guards both times, and was supposed to be an expert marksman with any pistol.
The short, ugly man was Tom Smith, a hulking gorilla with coal-black hair and an acid-scarred face. A master of the martial arts, he often killed with his bare hands, but seemed to prefer a crowbar or sledgehammer.
The last member of Trinity was Kurt Sakeda. Middle-aged with wavy hair and a deep artificial tan, Sakeda looked like an aging Hollywood actor. But his green eyes flashed with hints of madness, and the waitresses steered clear of the former Mafia assassin.
Staggering through the array of crowded tables, a drunk man accidentally bumped into Potvin. Mumbling a slurred apology, the fellow started moving away when the mercenary grabbed him by the collar and slammed a fist into his stomach. The drunk went pale and gasped for breath. Twisting a grip on his shirt collar, Potvin dragged him over to an empty booth and shoved him behind the table. The drunk tried to rise and Potvin slammed an elbow into his throat, then ground a thumb into an eye, until the terrified man looked as if he was going to start screaming.
“All of it,” Potvin said softly, tightening his grip. “Not just mine, but all of it.”
With trembling fingers, the pickpocket dug inside his coat and handed over a wallet and a small collection of bills and credit cards.
In cold fury, Mike Potvin slapped the man twice in the face, oddly keeping in time to the pounding music. Bleeding from the mouth, the pickpocket reached into another pocket and extracted a wad of bills as large as a soup can.
“Get out,” Potvin said, tucking the money away.
Nodding weakly, the pickpocket quickly shuffled for the exit, leaving a trail of crimson droplets on the floor tiles. The bouncer held the door open for the man and closed it promptly behind him. His job was to maintain the peace. If nobody was complaining, and the crowd was still buying drinks, the bouncer really didn’t care what the customers did to each other.
Reaching the table, Trinity stood for a moment looking at the Forge soldiers sitting there, then they took their seats.
Without a word, Bronson handed them a fat envelope, and Sakeda tucked it inside his jacket without checking the money. The little man knew what would happen if he shortchanged them.
“What’s the job?” Potvin asked softly. “Need protection from Warner here? He likes soldier boys.”
“Shut your mouth, merc,” Mendoza muttered under his breath.
“You want some, Frankenstein?” Sakeda asked, watching a topless girl walk by, her heavy breasts swinging to the roll of her ample hips. The dancer was covered with glitter and a few tattoos that looked real until you noticed her sweat was making the henna stain run slightly. It looked as if her barbed-wire tattoo was bleeding.
“Yes, we do,” Caramico replied. “Prove to us that you are not FBI plants.”
“No problem.” Potvin chuckled. “Tom, kill somebody that won’t be noticed.”
The hulking Smith didn’t answer, but from under the table there came the subdued cough of a silenced pistol, the noise nearly lost in the music and cheering. Over in the far corner, an old man was sitting alone in a booth, sipping a beer. Suddenly, he jerked, then slumped over in his seat and went still.
“Good enough?” Potvin said, pulling out a toothpick and tucking it into his mouth. “Or you want more?”
“Good enough for now,” Caramico agreed. She would never have shown it, but she was very impressed. A shot that fast, from under a table, past a dozen moving people, in this low light?
“So, back to the original question. What’s the job?” Potvin asked, throwing his arms across the back of the booth.
Caramico started to speak when the waitress delivered the beer. Potvin flashed her a hundred. “Keep the change, and don’t come back every few minutes,” he said, not even looking her way.
Going pale, the girl nodded and hurried away. It had been a long time since the Mafia had conducted any business here. These days they only seemed to want Oriental girls, and the Kit Kat specialized in big, busty blondes. Damn few of which ever came from Japan or Korea.
“We got some Feds on our ass and need them removed,” Caramico said succinctly.
“Done. Got a description?”
“Just follow us and kill anybody who comes our way.”
“No problem,” Potvin stated. “When you do want to—”
But Caramico and Mendoza were already rising. “Time is of the essence,” the lieutenant said, brushing back her short hair uncomfortably. “We have a car big enough for all.”
“No, we ride behind,” Sakeda corrected harshly. “Gotta stay mobile to watch your ass.”
The Forge soldiers exchanged knowing glances, and relaxed. That had been the final test. This Trinity team seemed more than capable for the job of escorting them to North Dakota. Pity they would be killed the moment they crossed the border.
“One more thing,” Caramico said, moving away from the table. “I’m in charge, not him…” She pointed at the sergeant. “Or him!” She jerked a thumb at Bronson. “Your orders come from me.”
“Whatever you say, boss,” Smith stated, turning to face her for the first time. “Why? Got something you want done?”
“Yes,” the lieutenant said, looking at Bronson. “He knows too much, and can be bought. Kill him.”
“Wha…” the man gasped, a hand darting under the table. “But I’ve never betrayed a client in my life! My whole business depends upon my silence!”
“Then shut up,” Potvin commanded in an icy voice, a 9 mm Beretta in his fist. There was an acoustical silencer on the end. “Now bring them out nice and slow. There’s a world of difference between dying and dying slow. That’s knowledge you don’t want.”
His eyes darting about in fear, Bronson licked his lips. “Look, lady, maybe we can make a deal,” he whispered hoarsely, his empty hand rising into view.
Unexpectedly, a loud explosion shook the entire building, and a flare of white light filled the club brighter than a thousand suns, or so it seemed. The patrons and performers went motionless in shock and confusion as a dark cloud of smoke expanded across the tables from the direction of the lavatory.
“Everybody freeze!” a voice boomed. “This is the FBI! You are under arrest!”
Instantly, Potvin fired at Bronson, the man jerking and falling from the coughing hail of bullets as he slipped out of sight beneath the table.
“Fucking feds!” Sakeda snarled, pulling two handguns from under his shirt and starting to bang and boom away.
Dropping to the stage, the dancers began to scream, the cursing audience knocking over the tables to rush for the front door. The bouncer tried to get out of the way, but the mob, plowed onward, shoving him outside with them.
“You are under arrest!” the stern voice bellowed again. “Surrender or die!”
“Fire exit,” Potvin whispered hoarsely, his silenced weapon coughing into the roiling cloud of smoke.
The Glock .45 in his fist booming thunder, Sakeda grabbed Caramico by the
blouse and yanked her into motion. “Get moving! We’ll handle this!”
Holding their Bersa pistols, the Forge soldiers both paused only for a heartbeat, then turned and ran. The men of Trinity were right behind them, firing steadily. As the group crashed through the fire exit, an alarm went off and the shouting inside the smoky club actually got louder.
In the parking lot, frightened people were running in every direction, and several fistfights had started for unknown reasons. Firing from the hip, Potvin coolly took out the halogen light clusters above the lines of cars, and darkness descended.
“This way!” Sakeda said with a grin, dropping a spent clip into a pocket and quickly reloading.
His silenced gun sweeping for targets, Potvin took the lead, with the others close behind.
AS THE FIRE DOORS automatically swung shut, the old man sprawled in the booth across the chaotic club raised his head from the table and wiped the fake blood from his face with a sleeve.
Checking the screaming crowd to make sure nobody had been hurt by the fusillade of blank cartridges, Jack Grimaldi eased from the booth and raced through the thinning fumes of the stun grenade. Casting a brief glance over a shoulder, Grimaldi saw that Bronson was already gone, having quickly figured out all by himself that the mercs were firing blanks for some reason and taking the opportunity to leave as soon as the others were outside. Smart man. Unfortunately, there would be no way for him to question the fellow now. Bronson would crawl into a nice deep hole and pull the cover over until further notice. Pity. But there was only so much Able Team could do without blowing its cover.
A flash-bang grenade is always handy, in case a hasty retreat is needed, the pilot noted. Damn things sound like a nuke inside even a large room like the nightclub. Pelting down a short corridor, Grimaldi could see that every mirror in sight was shattered from the stun grenade. In an open field they were deafening; inside a building, the harmless charge sounded louder than doomsday.
Charging into the empty manager’s office, Grimaldi shot off the lock on a steel door and slipped into the night. Heading across a weedy lot, the man hopped a fence and paused to whip out an EM scanner. When he was sure that the replacement van for Able Team was undisturbed, he disarmed the door and quickly got inside. Pushing down a panel on the dashboard, Grimaldi grabbed a microphone and started flipping switches. He heard the circuits get warm and thumbed the transmit button.
“Rock Garden, this is Sky King,” the chief pilot for Stony Man said quickly. “Three into two makes five, but I lost six. Repeat, six has done a Houdini.”
The military radio hummed softly as it condensed the words in a one-second squeal, then broadcast it at a commercial telecommunications satellite overhead. The squeal would be picked up by a NSA listening post and relayed directly to the private comsat in geosynchronous orbit above the Farm. Their nameless enemy had top-notch hackers, but early this morning Hal Brognola asked the President to direct every FBI field team in the nation to randomly fire off squeals about any damn thing they wished: favorite recipes, childhood memories, sports scores. No matter how good the terrorist organization was they couldn’t possibly track down one squeal among the hundreds of others. The plan was foolproof.
“Confirm, Sky King,” Price replied less than a minute later. “Find six if you can. But please be advised that the Einstein Boys have left the party of sad men.”
That took a moment for Grimaldi to unscramble. The Einstein Boys…Trinity. Sad men…they were blue? The police. Damn, the mercs had escaped from the police station!
“Understood, Rock Garden,” the man stated calmly. “Will watch for a surprise party.”
“We’re soon going to have a party of our own, and everybody is invited,” Price said tersely, her voice crackling for a moment with static. “Move fast. Over and out.”
Turning off the radio, Grimaldi started the big Detroit engine and activated a small homing screen. Each member of Able Team was wearing a beacon, just in case they got separated. But three blips immediately appeared in the lower-right side of the screen, heading away from the club at roughly ninety miles per hour.
Shifting into gear, Grimaldi started after the escaping terrorists and their Stony Man escorts. If this worked, they would be lead directly to the North American uplink dish.
Swinging the unmarked van into traffic, Grimaldi sincerely hoped that Trinity was nowhere as good as the rumors said. There was too much at stake for the mission to be derailed by some lunatic mercs seeking revenge. I’ll have to do something about that, the pilot grimly noted, and pulled out a cell phone to start placing a long-distance call.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Buenos Aires, Argentina
Once far away from the airport, Hawkins maneuvered the Hummer into an alley between a couple of office buildings. Warily, the team checked to see if anybody was pursuing them, but everything seemed to be clear. Just in case, McCarter directed Hawkins to zigzag through the maze of back alleys until coming back out on a major boulevard. The traffic was a steady parade of cars, trucks, motorcycles and delivery vans. A river of metal.
Forcing an entry into the congestion, Hawkins maintained the speed limit in an effort to stay inconspicuous. But he needn’t have bothered. Nobody noticed their arrival. All of the drivers seemed to be talking on cell phones while eating lunch. The scene was so much like every other major city in the world, the members of Phoenix Force had to smile. New York, Berlin, Perth—people were people, concentrating on their personal errands and the trivia of life. Nobody would probably have noticed if they stripped naked and launched a rocket attack on a cymbal factory.
Staying with the flow of traffic, Hawkins followed signs for the continental highway. It wasn’t an easy task. The man could read Spanish, but bright neon lights blazed everywhere and taxicabs whizzed constantly, obviously attempting to break light speed. The city was crowded to the burst point, the sidewalks jammed with noisy people in a wide spectrum of clothing, ranging from high fashion to gaucho cowboys in leather chaps and fringed hats. Every store was packed solid with customers, every parking spot along the curbs was taken, every parking garage was full, and in some areas the cars were triple-parked at fire hydrants. A low rumble of thunder proved to be a cheering crowd inside a gigantic sports arena. The ivy-covered entrance to the Argentine Museum of Natural History was mobbed with excited people, the hundreds of flash cameras resembling lightning strikes as the TV crews tried to get closer to the poised skeleton of a Tyrannosaurus Rex and a huge map showing where it had been unearthed in the southern regions of the nation. Clearly, this was some special day of celebration, or else the population of Argentina was truly staggering.
“Unless the army is using helicopters, there is no way they could be following us,” McCarter growled, easing the grip on his Browning Hi-Power pistol held alongside the seat and out of sight. “Let’s head inland.”
“Absolutely,” Hawkins drawled, shifting gears and heading around a opera house.
Traversing the spaghettilike maze of streets, the Hummer soon reached the continental highway and started directly out of town. Several times, the team passed a highway patrolman issuing a ticket to a speeder, or arresting a drunk, and once they saw a heavily armed group of Federal Police handcuffing a group of bloody men. Through the open rear doors of their van could be seen stacks of clear plastic bags full of a white powder. Plus, a lot of AK-47 assault rifles.
“Drug dealers,” James commented.
A couple of hours later, Phoenix Force was still on the highway moving through the colossal city. The offices and skyscrapers had slowly changed into suburbs, homes and schools, and parks stretching forever. There didn’t seem to be an end to Buenos Aires. But eventually the suburbs thinned into rolling farmlands and finally wild woods, the forest thick and deep.
“The Paris of the south, my ass,” Encizo snorted, massaging a bullet scar on his temple. “This is more like The City That Never Stops.”
“How far away is Fort Peron?” Hawkins asked, glancing
sideways.
“Fifty more miles,” McCarter replied. “But we turn off the main road at the next exit to travel overland.”
“We’re not going to drive up to the front door and politely ask to come inside and look around?” Hawkins asked, almost smiling.
“Hardly.” Exhaling slowly, McCarter snapped open the lid of a PDA, the tiny screen displaying an aerial map of the countryside. “I downloaded this before we landed. We head due west, turn north at the abandoned rock quarry, then follow the river, and there’s Fort Peron.”
“Smack in the middle of nowhere,” Hawkins commented, spotting the exit and slowing down. He started to add something, then cursed. Blocking the entry to the side road was a Federal Police car.
“On my mark,” McCarter said out of the corner of his mouth, even while smiling in confusion at the two stern officers climbing from the police car.
Gently applying the brakes, Hawkins stopped the Hummer a few yards away from the police, wisely keeping both of his hands in plain sight. “Something wrong, sir?” he asked politely.
“Nobody is allowed to use this road by order of the military,” the older policeman said. His uniform was wrinkled from sitting in the parked car for a long time, but the 9 mm Bersa pistol in the holster at his hip gleamed with oil.
“But we have permission from General Calvano,” McCarter declared loudly. “Now, get out of the way, fool!” This was a calculated risk. If Calvano was behind the hacking of the GPS network, he would have to be a fool to have honest policemen guarding his back door. These men were either his own troops in disguise, or else cops that he owned, body and soul. Either way, using his name should invoke an immediate response.
But at the mention of the general, the two Federal Police exchanged quick looks, then clawed for the guns on their hips.
Instantly, the members of Phoenix Force fired the stun guns in their hands. The tiny barbs hit the two men in their chests, easily punching through their shirts to reach the bare skin underneath. The second contact was made, the accumulators discharged 200,000 volts along the hairline wires trailing behind the barbs. Twitching for a moment, the Federal Police dropped their guns, went limp and collapsed to the ground.
Capital Offensive (Stony Man) Page 17