Extreme Instinct. Don Pendleton

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ passengers to the heliport of the mansion sprawled on top of the craggy mountain. All of the vessels were moored just past the twelve-mile mark from the coast, and thus were in international waters and safe from any unwanted intrusion by the federal police, the Italian navy or even NATO.

      Once more, the driver of the black Hummer stopped at a kiosk for a security check. This deep into Norel territory, the kiosk more resembled a concrete pillbox. The guards were carrying AK-105 assault rifles, each one equipped with a 30 mm grenade launcher. Off to the side was a sandbag nest where guards were manning several of the new MANPAD rocket launchers, powerful enough to blow a hole through even a U.S. Army Abrams M-1 tank or an Apache gunship.

      The security guards found the people in the Hummer acceptable and waved them through. Sheikh Abdul Ben Hassan was a regular customer here, although he always seemed to send different representatives. But that was the prerogative of a customer; the only person a man could trust was himself, and the only safe place on Earth was the grave.

      Following the road to the crest of the mountain, the driver of the Hummer stopped the vehicle in a spacious parking lot nearly filled with luxury vehicles.

      “You can almost taste the money,” David McCarter muttered, running a finger along his stiff collar. He was wearing a designer suit, a blue cravat of raw silk held in place by a gold stickpin. His shoes were Italian loafers and a Rolex Supreme glinted on his wrist. As a former member of the elite British SAS, the lanky man felt about as uncomfortable as a nun in a whorehouse on coupon night.

      “Smell the blood money, you mean,” muttered T. J. Hawkins, maintaining a neutral demeanor as he set the brake. Born Thomas Jefferson Hawkins, the combat veteran was called T.J. by his family, and Hawk by his fellow soldiers. A sleek Beretta machine pistol was holstered at his side, spare clips thrusting up from an ammo pouch like ancient Japanese samurai swords.

      Stepping out of the Hummer, the two men coolly studied the high stone wall separating the parking lot from the Norel estate on the other side. There were no coils of concertina wire, electrical wires or even video cameras edging the defenses of the mountaintop mansion. But the former member of Delta Force knew that the plain-looking wall was jammed full of reactive tank armor, antipersonnel mines, EM scanners and more proximity sensors than the west wing of the White House. There was nothing crude or slapdash about the Norel operations, but then the international weapons merchants were richer than most small nations. Every weekend, the Norel exposition was open for business, and as old saying goes, business was good.

      As with many aspects of life in Italy, the operators had an understanding with the law, along with an uneasy truce. No deaths occurred here, and no weapons were sold to anybody who lived within a hundred miles. If the federal police or the military ever did arrive, they could arrest many of the customers, but the next day Milan, Rome and Venice would be flooded with advanced weaponry sold at discount prices, the Norel cartel practically giving the guns away as revenge.

      Both of the Stony Man operatives knew that there were no actual weapons at the exposition. Only brochures and smiling salesmen. A customer perused the merchandise, made selections and paid a hefty deposit, with the rest of the money upon delivery, which was always very far away from Milan. It was a genuine den of thieves that operated on the honor system.

      After a moment McCarter snapped his fingers and the remaining three members of Phoenix Force climbed from the Hummer as if they had been waiting for permission. They were all well dressed, freshly scrubbed, yet carried the unmistakable aura of controlled violence, the calling card of every mercenary alive.

      “Man, I hate doing this naked,” Gary Manning muttered. The burly Canadian brushed a callused hand over his slicked-down hair. He felt like a damn fool in the tailored clothing, with a small diamond clipped to his left earlobe. There was a bulky Desert Eagle automatic holstered under his jacket, two spare clips attached to the straps. An expert sniper, his preferred weapon was a Barrett .50 rifle, but that had to be left behind for this particular mission.

      “At least you have that popgun,” Rafael Encizo countered, adjusting his glasses. “I only have my winning smile.”

      The eyewear was fake, merely sheets of clear glass, but they served as a vital part of his disguise as the money. The Stony Man operative was wearing a dark business suit of only moderate price range, but the attaché case handcuffed to his wrist was sheathed in the finest Moroccan leather. The lock was a biometric sensor plate, and the hinges glistened like solid gold. The stocky Puerto Rican had a quick smile, and even faster hands, and was considered one of the best underwater demolitions experts in the world.

      “No guns allowed, brother,” Calvin James said in a thick Chicago accent. The former U.S. Navy SEAL was wearing a yachting outfit, including white deck shoes and a jaunty cap. He was also armed with a Desert Eagle .357 Magnum, the big-bore automatic carefully fired a dozen times to take the clean sheen off the brand-new weapon.

      “Rather ironic for a weapons market, don’t you think?” Encizo asked out of the corner of his mouth.

      “I don’t think they know what the word means,” McCarter replied, striding for the front gate.

      Leaving the Hummer unlocked, the other men followed close behind as befitting their place as his staff. At the gate, the Stony Man operatives showed their identification once more to the guards. These men were wearing Level Five body armor, the so-called Dragonskin, and carrying MP-5 submachine guns slung on their shoulders. Grudgingly, McCarter approved of the choice of weapons. The Heckler & Koch MP-5 was what his team regularly used on combat missions, and in his opinion was the best all-purpose weapon in existence.

      “Welcome to Norel, gentlemen,” a bald guard said, waving a hand toward the plastic arch of a weapon scanner. “Step this way, please.”

      As McCarter stepped through the arch, a soft beep was audible.

      “No guns,” the second guard stated in halting English. “Leave it with us.”

      “But this is a gun show,” McCarter stated in mock outrage.

      Laying a hand on the MP-5, the guard stiffened. “No guns.”

      “Excuse my partner, sir,” the first guard said smoothly. “The Norel weapons policy is for your own protection. There are far too many—shall we say—old friends who meet here, and in the heat of the moment…well…” The guard smiled tolerantly, spreading his hands in a classic Italian gesture.

      Pretending to be annoyed, the members of Phoenix Force passed over their never-before-used weapons, and McCarter incredibly received a claim chit in return, as if they had just stored their coats at a restaurant.

      “And how is the sheikh these days, sir?” a guard asked out of the blue.

      “Still deceased,” McCarter replied, then added a smile that said the exact opposite was true.

      The two armed men laughed and bowed slightly as they waved him forward.

      One at a time, the Stony Man operatives walked through the weapon scanner. There was a brief moment of concern about the locked attaché case carried by Encizo, so he reluctantly opened it to display a double row of small bars of gold bullion. The guards probed for a false bottom, but found nothing and finally allowed Encizo through to join the other members of Phoenix Force.

      It was clear that the guards were suspicious of that much rare metal being used as a payment, as diamonds were much more prevalent. They were lighter, smaller, easier to transport and could be smuggled inside a human mule if necessary. However, there was nothing forbidden about using precious metals; only narcotics СКАЧАТЬ