Capital Offensive. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ along faster, the truck kept coming, and now Kalashnikov assault rifles cut loose from behind the vehicle, the three ducking mercs only partially in view.

      Bobbing and weaving among the dripping ferns, Phoenix Force arced through the jungle on both sides of the crude road, only to reappear and close upon the truck from opposite sides.

      “T.J. and Gary, go!” McCarter commanded over the radio.

      Rising into view, the two members of Phoenix Force hosed the truck with 9 mm rounds from their MP-5 submachine guns.

      Forced to quickly take cover behind the moving vehicle, the three mercs pulled grenades from their pockets, clawing to get off the strip of safety tape holding down the arming levers. As the tape came loose, the mercs yanked out the arming pins.

      That was when McCarter and Encizo stepped out of the ferns and stitched the three with prolonged bursts. Crying out in shock, the mercs threw their arms high as the copper-jacketed rounds tore them apart, the safety handles falling away free.

      As the dying men collapsed, Phoenix Force rapidly took cover, and a split second later the grenades detonated, the entire jungle seeming to shake from the triple blast.

      Crouching in the bushes, Hawkins grunted as something slammed hard into his belly. Slapping a hand to the spot, he quickly checked for blood, but his NATO body armor had stopped the shrapnel from penetrating. It had hurt, a lot, but he would live.

      Continuing through the smoky trees, the truck jounced over the still corpses of the mercs lying in the bloody mud, until it wandered into the plants and rumbled away out of sight, the dripping leaves and flowery vines closing behind the vehicle.

      “Anybody hurt?” McCarter demanded over the radio, slapping a fresh clip into his weapon. These three made twenty mercs total, but he was staying sharp in case the Miguel brothers had brought along some friends.

      “No breakage,” James replied, still kneeling alongside the unconscious leader of the mercenaries. He was in front of the man, protecting him from incoming rounds.

      “And the area looks clear,” Hawkins reported, scanning the jungle with IR goggles. The optical device registered heat sources, and aside from the Stony Man commandos and the sugarcane conflagration raging out of control, there was nothing within sixty yards that was bigger than an iguana.

      “Stay sharp,” McCarter directed, walking over to James and his patient. The Stony Man commando had the mercenary propped up against a banyon tree, and was just finishing off a temporary bandage around the ragged wound.

      “What’s his condition?” McCarter asked.

      “He’ll live,” James said, adjusting the knot. Satisfied, he moved away from the man and reclaimed his weapons. Only a fool tried to heal an enemy with a gun at his side. “Just not sure how useful that arm will ever be.”

      “Can you wake him?”

      James gave a curt nod. “No problem.”

      “Do it,” McCarter ordered.

      Pulling a preloaded syringe from the compact med kit, James gave the unconscious merc a combo shot of morphine, digitalis and amphetamine, a battlefield cocktail guaranteed to rouse the dead if the bodies were still fresh.

      He’ll have a splitting headache tomorrow, James thought, injecting the devil brew directly into a vein. But then again, the stupid son of a bitch is lucky to still have a head. Mercenaries he could tolerate. Drug dealers he could execute in cold vengeance. His kid sister had died of an over dose of smack, and there weren’t enough bullets in existence ever to balance the score.

      With a low moan, Julio sluggishly came awake. “You…” the man mumbled in blurry recognition. “What did you give me?”

      “Something for the pain,” James said, putting away the empty syringe.

      Along with other things to try to make me talk, Julio rationalized, waves of soothing warmth spreading through his arm and then his chest. The pain vanished, leaving him feeling slightly disconnected from reality. Then the memory of the fight, along with the death of his brother, came rushing back and he snarled in raw hatred.

      “What do you want with me, gringo?” Julio demanded, his tongue feeling thick and awkward. “I tell you nothing. Nothing! Go ahead and haul my ass to jail. I will call my lawyers and be free in a day. A day!”

      “That might be true, if we were the DEA or the police,” McCarter said, glancing sideways at Hawkins.

      Giving a wink, Hawkins recoiled from a corpse on the ground. “Hey, this guy is still alive!” he cried loudly.

      “Too bad. We already have their leader,” McCarter said. “So we don’t need him.”

      “No problem, sir.” Pulling his Beretta, Hawkins worked the slide and fired a couple of 9 mm Parabellum rounds directly into the chest of the dead man. The body jerked at each impact, almost seeming to die all over again.

      The brutally callous execution caught Julio completely by surprise. These mainlanders were insane! Most definitely not U.S. Army, or even the CIA.

      Crouching on his heels, McCarter lit a cigarette and offered it to the prisoner.

      As if suspecting another trap, Julio hesitantly accepted and sucked in a ragged breath. He held the smoke for a long time, then let it out slowly. “Okay, okay, you win, I’ll talk,” Julio muttered grudgingly. “What do you want to know?”

      “Don’t want to know anything,” McCarter said incredibly. “What you will do is send a message that this job was a total success. We’re dead, and the warehouse was burned to the ground.”

      Smoking away steadily, Julio said nothing but his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Why?” he asked, puzzled.

      “Our business. And don’t try to lie that it has to go through your sister,” McCarter warned. “She is already in custody, and we’ve raided her files.” Or rather Kurtzman and his cybernetic team had, the Briton thought, which was pretty much the same thing. “We know that she only relays information. Your brother runs the crew, but you make the deals.”

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