Exit Strategy. Don Pendleton

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ It’s an arena,” Price explained. “You’re supposed to be the Christians and they are the lions.”

      “We’ve sold our cloaks for swords in that event,” McCarter said. “Granted, they’re in 4.6 mm, 5.56 mm and 7.62 mm, but they are swords.”

      “I’d prefer you had some 40 mm,” Price returned.

      “Cal and T.J. are fitting their M203s,” McCarter told her. “No grenades to replenish the supplies on the Arizona side, but we’ll see what we can scavenge over there.”

      “In that case, happy hunting,” Price concluded.

      McCarter could tell that Barbara Price wasn’t excited about the means by which Phoenix Force intended to circumvent the cartel’s ambush. The plan was going to involve a lot of explosions and a ton of gunfire.

      Even so, this was the bed the Caballeros de Durango had made for itself. McCarter, anticipating the possibility, had had Blancanales, Encizo and Hawkins, using Arizona and Texas Spanish accents, record messages while on the plane. The plan was simple. If the cartel and Accion Obrar hoped to make Stony Man look bad with a front-page splash of violence and terrorism on the border, the agency would throw up a smoke screen. The three Spanish-fluent Stony Man commandos would be portrayed as reconquistas: radical Mexican insurgents who wanted the southern border states added to their own.

      “We didn’t cross the border, the border crossed us!” and “¡Viva la raza!” peppered the recordings. There was also condemnation of the criminally complacent Mexican government and law enforcement.

      It was a simple ruse, but intricate enough to obfuscate the presence of the American covert agency in this mission. Just as the packets of cocaine and the oxygen bottle would provide a blinding haze, so would the messages to news agencies. The press, however, would receive their high from the juicy weight of the incident.

      * * *

      HUNDREDS OF MILES AWAY, on the streets of Yuma, Arizona, Rosario Blancanales maneuvered into position with his toolbox full of warfare. The earbud, hands-free communicator he wore was invisible, and even if it were noticed, his salt-and-pepper hair was light enough to allow him to get away with appearing to need a hearing aid.

      The real concern he had was that he’d betray the presence of the arsenal under the loose folds of his coveralls, but so far, no one had noticed. Arizona was a state that allowed for open carry, but a shoulder-holstered submachine gun, a full-auto converted Para-Ordnance P14 “FrankenColt Mark II” and a grenade launcher would stretch the limits of even the state’s relatively lax gun laws.

      He found the van and confirmed that it was his target. Part of his disarming appearance, aside from the work clothes and toolbox, was the bag lunch he’d brought with him. Blancanales took a spot on a bench, set the red metal case beside him and pulled out a sandwich and a bottle of cola. A bag of chips to complete the lunch-break illusion, and he was armed to the teeth, yet invisible in plain sight.

      Blancanales waited for his partners to set up on their targets.

      “Ready.” Lyons’s voice crackled in his ear.

      “In position,” Schwarz confirmed.

      Blancanales set down his lunch and opened the big red toolbox. Inside, he had his stand-alone M203. He kept the grenade launcher hidden until he thumbed a buckshot round into the breech of the mighty weapon. The 40 mm barrel was twice the diameter of even the heaviest over-the-counter shotguns. That doubling of bore meant that the buckshot “grenade” held eight times the payload of a 12-gauge shell, turning the launcher into a brutal antipersonnel device. He closed the breech then swung it out of the toolbox, aiming at the driver’s-side door of the van and firing.

      The range was fifty feet, which gave the swarm of projectiles Blancanales triggered the room to spread out to a four-foot-diameter circle. Each pellet, a third of an inch in span, perforated sheet metal and glass. The driver of the van and his steering column were ravaged brutally, bearings finding flesh, bone, plastic and wiring equally fragile. With a single blast, the Able Team warrior had eliminated the ambusher’s ability to escape the counterattack.

      With smooth, practiced precision, Blancanales ejected the empty shell and pushed a second one home, aiming toward the rear of the van. Its back doors started to swing open, which confirmed that there were gunmen bunched up and ready to burst out onto the street.

      The same sheet metal that provided so little protection for the driver buckled under the onslaught of another four-foot-wide swarm. The buckshot might not have had enough energy to punch through the skin of the van and an entire human body, but the second salvo of flying copper and lead meant that corpses tumbled out onto the street, not active, angry shooters.

      The double burst of doom provided more than sufficient staggering horror to keep the gunners still inside the van stunned and indecisive as Blancanales put the grenade launcher back in its box and ripped his MP-9 from its harness. The shoulder stock clicked into place and Blancanales moved forward, selector on full-auto.

      One of the enemy decided valor was the better part of discretion and leaped from the rear doors, weapon in hand. Before he could land, Blancanales tracked him and ripped off a burst of four 9 mm slugs. All four rounds were on target and instead of landing on his feet like a hero, the charging assassin toppled and crashed into a bloodied mess on the asphalt.

      Cries in Spanish and English rattled from inside the van. Blancanales heard the jangle and roll of a side panel on the opposite side of the vehicle. Those unhurt, or at least able to beat a retreat, had decided to keep the bulk of the van between them and whatever avenging force was bearing down upon them.

      However, sheet metal was as ineffective against a 9 mm submachine gun as it was to the 40 mm buckshot payload. Blancanales knew where the side door on the van would be; he aimed at the right spot and triggered two more short bursts. Slugs chopped into the thin skin of the van and a cry of agony split the air. To say that Blancanales felt bad about literally shooting fish in a barrel would be a lie.

      These men were stationed, watching a federal building, and in wait to attack and either kidnap or kill a US deputy marshal and three terrified children.

      No, mercy was not in the cards for these armed thugs, and as Blancanales swung around the rear of the van, keeping his eyes on the open doors, he was primed to continue blazing out 9 mm retribution as long as someone was there with a gun in his hand.

      Cutting the pie to not expose himself to enemy fire, he spotted another cartel soldier standing in the rear doors. He was splattered in wet pink clothing, white shirt and linen jacket soaked through to the skin where his partners had bled all over him. He still had a rifle in both hands and the sight of Blancanales startled him.

      Blancanales, on the other hand, had expected someone to be there and he stroked the trigger on the MP-9. At 900 rounds per minute, he emptied the last of the 15-round magazine into the blood-drenched ambusher. Blancanales destroyed his face and upper chest with that extended burst. In a heartbeat, he ejected the spent box and pushed home a fresh stack of thirty 9 mm slugs.

      The last man in the van, the last living body at least, was huddled behind the driver’s seat, hands up and fingers splayed wide. “I’m not armed! Don’t shoot!”

      Blancanales kept the muzzle of the machine pistol leveled at the man, but scanned the area. There could be one more gunman, possibly crouched around the front of the vehicle. This guy might be a legitimate surrender, or he could simply be a distraction. Either way, Blancanales refused to lock into tunnel vision on him.

СКАЧАТЬ