Orbital Velocity. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ a neo-Nazi group like Combat 18,” McCarter said. “Organizations like them see the soccer hooligan growth as a breeding ground for new recruits.”

      “His name was Kent Hyle, and he’s part of the Jakkhammer Legacy,” Price provided.

      “Jakkhammer Legacy,” McCarter replied, nodding sagely, his tone transmitting his understanding over the phone.

      “What the hell is the Jakkhammer, and why are neo-Nazis holding it in high honor?” Price asked.

      “Jakkhammer, in the ’70s, was a righteously brilliant punk band. When I was in a band, too young for signing up, I was a great fan of theirs,” McCarter replied. “Then around 1980, they became a part of the Rock against Communism movement, which just started a slippery slope.”

      “Nothing wrong about being against communism,” Price noted.

      McCarter shrugged. “I’ve seen communism’s failures, but the RAC was simply blowing smoke up arses. The RAC was formed to be a counter to the Anti-Nazi League’s Rock against Racism drive, because Jakkhammer was a pro-white power band.”

      “All the little white boys were feeling edged out of their lowest rung on the social ladder by the addition of Indians and Jamaicans to the London population,” Manning added.

      “Oh,” Price replied. “And much like American politics today, communism or socialism is a handy slur that can’t be used as the basis of slander by far-right extremists.”

      “Bingo,” McCarter replied. “I wouldn’t be surprised if certain U.S. news network pundits weren’t punk fans back in the late ’70s.”

      “Regardless, Jakkhammer Legacy has a reputation with the British police,” Price said.

      “I know that,” McCarter said. “When the whole team was in London a while back on holiday, we ended up having to teach a few of their number a lesson about accosting blacks and Latinos.”

      “Good times,” Manning said, showing a rare grin at the commission of physical violence against anyone. “Punching a Nazi makes anyone’s day a little better.”

      Price chortled. “You’re going to have an excellent evening with the information we’ll give you two, then.”

      McCarter flexed his fists, tendons popping, a cruel grin on his lips. “Give us an address, and we’ll ask a few hard questions.”

      Manning opened the pair’s “special” suitcase and pulled out two pairs of brown leather gloves. The gloves were designed for law enforcement and military, with reinforcement and padding to protect the small bones of the human hand when utilized for punches against people’s heads and faces. He tossed a pair to McCarter. They would, of course, go with firearms to meet with members of the Jakkhammer Legacy, but going in guns blazing was a hard way to get information. On the other hand, it would take considerable damage to the lips and nose to leave an opponent unable to talk after being thrashed.

      McCarter received the files from Stony Man Farm as he prepared to head out, the leather of his fighting gloves creaking as he fit them snugly over his hands. He couldn’t help feeling a slight bit of guilt over taking such glee in laying abuse on a violence-and-racism-prone group of disenfranchised young men, nor could he dismiss the irony that he was going to become to the hooligans what the hooligans were to honest, law-abiding people.

      McCarter glanced at Manning. “Let’s go teach some lessons tonight, Gary.”

      “Be Afraid 101?” Manning asked.

      McCarter nodded. “Class is now in session.”

      CHAPTER THREE

      Los Angeles

      Carl Lyons was a man who had been born to hunt monsters. It had been apparent when he worked the rough streets of Los Angeles, patrolling neighborhoods in dispute zones between rival gangs with a determination that had earned him the title of Ironman. Hal Brognola had seen it after Lyons’s chance encounter with Mack Bolan, the Executioner, and had guided the young cop to put his unwavering courage and sharp mind to work in Brognola’s organized crime task force, going undercover against the most murderous of gangs. Finally, Lyons had found a home in the Stony Man Farm–based Sensitive Operations Group, alongside Rosario Blancanales and Hermann Schwarz as the leader of Able Team.

      With his new position, Lyons had tackled gangsters, terrorists and psychopathic madmen from Alaska to Sri Lanka. All that experience gave Lyons insight into the minds of human predators. He knew that there was one certain place to find his prey and that was where it would find the tastiest meals.

      Right now, it was in Los Angeles, where the President was returning from a trip to the G8 conference. The President would stay there for a few days, and there were rumors in the wind that something was going to happen. Those rumors tickled Lyons’s honed instincts, informing him that he would be needed in the City of Angels.

      Unfortunately, the intel fragments that had been picked up indicated that whatever was going to happen might occur on either coast, or both. That meant leaving his partners in Able Team behind while he went solo to L.A. His fears were confirmed when Moscow became the target of a volley of orbitally launched spears, then Britain came under assault by electronically directed rioters.

      Brognola had just finished relaying the London situation over Lyons’s earpiece.

      “Two G8 nations in less than two hours,” Lyons mused. “It looks like a lot of things are coming together right now. I don’t like this one bit.”

      Brognola grunted in agreement. “We were lucky to have David and Gary on hand for London. But with the teams spread so piecemeal across the globe…”

      “We’ll cope,” Lyons responded as he looked around the LAX terminals. There were dozens of Secret Service and other agency personnel assembled, their nerves on edge as they waited for Air Force One to touch down. Up in the night skies, United States Air Force jets were flying air patrols and their radar and infrared sensors searched for sign of any menace that would come close to harming the leader of the free world.

      Lyons noted that he blended in with the L.A. police who had been pulled in to supplement federal agents in putting a protective ring around the President. It was standard operating procedure to draw from local law enforcement, and in a way, it had made things easier for Lyons to slip unnoticed among them. He had spent enough time as both a cop and a Fed to pass for the other when encountering either side. It was a two-edged sword, unfortunately. The very hodgepodge of personnel that had allowed him an anonymous presence, fully armed, in an airport on heightened security would make any other ex-cop or former federal agent blend in, and not every retired law enforcement agent was out of work because he wanted to leave the job amicably.

      Lyons had encountered too many bent cops and corrupt Feds to make him feel complacent about the ease with which he operated within the supposedly airtight security cordon around the terminal. Lyons had come into the airport with an assortment of firepower that would give him a chance to grab something more substantial in the case of a full-blown gunfight. He had his favorite revolver, a Colt Python, on him as always. This particular .357 Magnum was a snub-nosed version with its frame cut and adapted to wear Pachmayr Compacs, tucked into an extralarge side pocket in his slacks. Speed loaders packed with 125-grain semi-jacketed hollowpoints weighed down the pockets of his sports blazer, ready to slam six rounds at a time into an empty cylinder. A .357 Magnum hammerless, five-shot Centennial revolver rode in an ankle holster СКАЧАТЬ