Exit Strategy. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
next instant, streams of 4.6 mm autofire that slashed through their internal organs.
From the back, McCarter and James were blazing away with their own weapons. The Briton with his MP-7, James with his Kitty carbine that, despite a suppressor, still produced a vigorous clatter as high-velocity 5.56 mm tore through the air at nearly 2,500 feet per second. Cartel gunmen twisted and writhed as swift bursts chopped through their flesh.
Another body toppled over a railing above. His arrival on the warehouse floor was punctuated with the thunder of splintering wood and a mist of spraying blood as bones on the way to the concrete split flesh between like ersatz scissors. Hawkins paused long enough to see who else Manning had engaged from a distance. He saw another three bodies sprawled on the wire mesh flooring of the catwalks, each lying with limbs twisted to impossible angles. He saw that there were another two gunmen up there and was about to aim at one, but Manning’s marksmanship was demonstrated again. The man’s face burst into a cloud of dark gore, skull cored by 7.62 mm NATO jacketed lead.
The last of the gunmen threw his weapon away, holding his hands up in an effort to keep the invisible god of death from taking his life.
The others on the icehouse floor were still in the mood to fight, no sudden thunderbolts of doom whispering out of nowhere to execute them. Hawkins hurled a flash-bang at a clot of Mexican cartel gunners, letting his empty MP-7 crash to the floor. The distraction device struck one of the caballeros and bounced skyward before it detonated, raining earsplitting thunder and eye-burning light.
With the crash of the grenade, Hawkins transitioned to the light-equipped Beretta, drawing it up and firing. As in practice with the barrel given extra weight from the mounted torch, recoil was nonexistent. A stream of 9 mm bullets barked out of the five-inch barrel of the M9, connecting with Durango soldiers and punching through upper chests and heads with laser precision. For ten shots, four men were down and dead, Hawkins so fast on the trigger that he punched them twice or three times before gravity caught up with the suddenness of their demise.
Encizo had the stock extended on the MP-7, braced against his shoulder. From this position he was able to move and pivot with speed and grace, and yet, every time he had a clear view of an enemy, he also had the machine pistol on target. High-velocity projectiles exited the barrel so swiftly, their mass so minor, that recoil wasn’t a factor in putting rounds on target, either. A flurry of 4.6 mm hornets zipped through skin and cartwheeled through muscle, lodging in bone once they struck fluid mass.
Though adrenaline and the fog of combat made the fight seem to stretch out longer, in truth, it was barely closing in on a minute since Encizo had dropped the first flash-bang to start the battle. Moving with trained precision, and making certain they were in cover, the four men of Phoenix Force inside the icehouse exercised brutal efficiency at crushing any opposition.
A minute and five seconds after the flash-bang started festivities, an eerie silence enveloped the icehouse
“Gary, how loud was it out there?” McCarter’s voice rang over their hands-free communicators.
“Except for the tamale cart, nobody even noticed it. He crashed just inside the foyer when I took him,” Manning returned.
“Right. Get down here,” McCarter ordered. “Good breach, T.J., Rafe.”
“Thanks,” Hawkins answered. Even though they were engaged in radio chatter, none of the five commandos were letting their attention wander from the tasks at hand. For the four inside, it was making certain no one was up and fighting. For Manning, it was removing himself from his hide and joining the others.
So far, they’d only secured one end of the Nogales icehouse smuggling tunnel.
There was still three hundred feet to trek underground and security at the other end to deal with.
Perez took another sip of his energy drink, his eyes feeling full of sand and grit. He wasn’t sure when the last time was that he’d blinked. Nerves buzzed throughout his body, but all that really mattered was the Castillo children. The two girls slept. Pequita with her arms around the younger, shorter Annette, protecting her. The two kids drew strength from their contact and he hadn’t allowed their minds to wander to the fates of their parents.
Domingo Castillo, however, stayed mostly awake, or only partially asleep. Young Dom was classically nodding off, pulling himself awake only as he dipped into slumber.
Perez sucked back another sip. A knock at the door startled him and he nearly choked on his drink.
His hand fell to the big .45 on his hip.
“Friends coming in,” growled a voice from the other side.
Dom jerked fully awake but his sisters remained wound together in sleep.
In walked three men, newcomers Perez hadn’t seen around the offices before. He’d been told to expect them. While he recognized them, he didn’t know any names. He knew the trio was usually referred to by code names. He also knew these guys weren’t supposed to exist, and the things they did when not teaching cops and soldiers were to stay secret until the end of time, according to the nondisclosure agreement Perez had been made to sign during training ops.
“I don’t know if you’re a sight for sore eyes or if I’m gonna regret dragging you guys into this mess,” Perez said.
Carl Lyons strode forward, holding out his hand to the deputy marshal.
Though Perez initially worried that these three men might be hurt, the handshake waylaid any fears that the man introduced as Ironman was fragile.
The man Perez knew as Politician seemed only two-thirds the size of Ironman by muscle mass, and yet the gray-haired warrior’s grip and arm were no less tightly muscled and firm. There was a wary alertness in his eyes, and though his hair had gone prematurely light, he still possessed a limber ease of movement that accompanied that strength.
The last was called Gadgets, and though he didn’t have the same muscle tone and cut of build as the other two men, he didn’t lack for a good grip in his handshake. It just seemed as if everything the genius did required very little physical or mental effort; that he glided with the flow rather than struggle unnecessarily. That Zen mentality had showed its true nature when he’d watched the man win a bench-press competition among the blacksuits without a grunt of exertion.
“We’re not going to talk about too many details in front of the kids,” Lyons warned. “By the way, I’m Karl Stone, he’s Pol Rosa, and Gadgets is Hermann Black.”
“Nice to meet you again,” Perez replied.
Schwarz walked over to Domingo Castillo carrying a small pack. He unzipped it and pulled out a small bottle of orange soda, handing it to him. “You doing okay?”
The boy nodded. He glanced over at Perez, as if to ask if it were okay to drink this. Perez gave a nod of assent, and Dom pulled off the top and took a thirsty sip. He approached his sisters and whispered to them, “Pequita, Annette!”
The girls’ eyes opened. Schwarz watched them, reminding Perez of a loyal family dog, one that would die for them before allowing harm to strike.
Sadly, tragedy had already struck.
“Orange soda and candy bars. Dentists might hate him, but he knows how to raise a kid’s spirits,” Blancanales said to Perez. “How about you?”
“I’m pretty certain my urine will be glow-in-the-dark neon green next time I piss,” Perez said, tapping the side of his can. “But the jokes aren’t true. I can’t smell colors yet.”
Lyons plucked the can from the blacksuit marshal. “You’ll get some sleep before we go anywhere. I need you in good operational condition.”
“You think I want to sleep?” Perez asked.
Lyons sat him down. “We’ll give you