скачать книгу бесплатно
The small, dark-skinned man moved so fast that Lyons almost didn’t see him until it was too late. Levering the corpse off himself and bringing the shotgun up to acquire the next target, Lyons felt the shock transmitted through his big hands as the smaller man dived from hiding behind one of the bunks that lined the walls of the narrow trailer. He slapped the barrel of the shotgun so hard that Lyons’s palms stung. The weapon was levered from his grasp as the small man snapped a brutal kick into Lyons’s shin and then unleashed a hail of blows with his fists.
Lyons released the shotgun rather than fight for it. He deflected most of the punches, though a few got through and very nearly rocked him. His opponent was small, but all wiry muscle, and he packed a hell of a punch in his small frame.
Lyons got a good look at the man’s face as they fought.
Thawan.
He’d had his doubts as to NetScythe’s ability to point them to targets ahead of the curve. He’d even entertained the notion that they might have stumbled on a local meth gang completely unrelated to the Triangle. The presence of Mok Thawan here, however, clinched it. They were definitely dealing with the Triangle.
Lyons threw a powerful front kick that staggered Thawan. In that instance, Lyons knew that, ultimately, he could take the little bastard if it came to that. It wouldn’t be easy, especially in this confined space, but he thought perhaps he could do the job. He came in, angling for a decent shot. Just one edge of a hand to the neck or a leopard’s paw to the throat and Thawan would be on the floor of the trailer, fighting to breathe. That was all it would take.
The glittering blade of the balisong flashed out and nearly caught Lyons in the face. He fought for room to draw the Python. Thawan anticipated that and slashed him in the arm as he tried to draw the gun, slamming a vicious elbow into Lyons’s midsection as he followed through. Then he was past Lyons and running from the trailer.
“I’ve got Thawan!” Lyons shouted. “He’s running from the residence!”
“Tied up here!” Blancanales shouted back. Lyons could hear the gunfire coming from the cookhouse. The firefight sounded ugly.
“Pinned,” Schwarz reported. “We can take them but we won’t be able to get to you.”
“On it,” Lyons said. He was already running as they talked, scooping up the USAS-12 and bulling his way through the trailer door.
The flash of light that accompanied the blow to his face was so sudden he thought he’d been shot. As his vision turned gray and he began to feel himself falling off the edge of the world, he heard a mocking voice.
“Gun to a knife fight, pal.”
He reached out, wanting to wrap his fingers around Thawan’s throat, hoping to stop the man then and there despite whatever injury had felled him. Then everything was receding and he could feel and hear nothing more….
THE VOLATILE CHEMICALS of a meth amphetamine cookhouse, Schwarz knew, meant that a firefight in a meth lab was a very iffy proposition. Fortunately for him and Blancanales, however, they’d caught the bikers in between runs of the chemical. They had been transferring a completed batch from the cookhouse to the storage trailer when the two Phoenix Force soldiers initiated their hit.
“On your left!” Schwarz called out. He triggered a pair of 3-round bursts from the Beretta 93-R and watched as the two men converging on Blancanales’s position fell where they stood. They were using the heavy workbenches in the cookhouse for cover, hoping that none of the chemicals or equipment on top of those benches suddenly exploded or set fire to the entire trailer. In addition to the bikers they’d seen and dispatched, there were several men who were clearly not Americans. Both Stony Man team members shot several operatives who, from their size and skin tone, could very likely be Triangle operatives from Thailand or Myanmar.
“Come on,” Blancanales said, finally luring the last of the cookhouse guards into the opening and putting a 5.56 bullet in the center of the man’s face. “We’ve got to help Carl!”
“I hear you.” Schwarz nodded. The two men made a cursory sweep of what was left of the cookhouse trailer, making sure no armed men still hid within. They came under fire as soon as they tried to leave, however. There was a shooter on the roof of the residence trailer.
“Sniper!” Schwarz warned.
As bullets ripped into the front of the cookhouse around the door frame, Blancanales very calmly assumed a shooter’s crouch on one knee. He brought the AR-15 to his shoulder and, very carefully, took aim. The gunner was just beginning to track his shots in toward Blancanales when the Politician’s rifle fired. The single shot did its deadly work; the shooter on the roof grunted and was still.
“Let’s go,” Blancanales said.
They found Carl Lyons flat on his back in front of the trailer. Schwarz produced an ampoule from his first-aid kit and broke the glass vial under Lyons’s nose. The big excop drew in a ragged breath and then turned away.
“Jesus, Gadgets, that stuff stinks,” he complained. “Get it away from me, damn it.”
“Are you okay?” Schwarz asked. Blancanales, with his AR-15, adopted a protective stance in front of the two men, ready for trouble and looking for any other gunmen who might still be on the move around their position.
“I’m fine,” he said. “Where’s the Ford?”
“Ford?” Blancanales asked.
“The pickup, a beat-to-shit Ford pickup truck. Where is it?”
“Not here.” Blancanales nodded toward the road. “Fresh tire tracks there, could be your truck, or could be that one.”
“He got away,” Lyons groaned.
“Who, Thawan?” Schwarz asked.
“Thawan.” Lyons nodded. “Little bastard came out of nowhere. He’s fast, too.”
“You’re lucky he didn’t kill you,” Schwarz said.
“I said I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine,” Schwarz said. “In fact, you look like you’ve been cut badly.”
Lyons looked down. His arm was bleeding freely. Schwarz cleaned the wound and applied a bandage from the first-aid kit, clucking like a hen. “You were lucky, Carl,” he said. “It’s not too deep.”
“Good,” Lyons growled. “Now get off me.”
“Uh,” Schwarz said. “Carl, there’s no easy way to say this but…”
“What?” Lyons demanded.
“You…you have a line across your face.”
“What?” Lyons pushed himself to his feet and grabbed the mirror of the nearest motorcycle.
There was a tire iron lying on the ground not far from where Lyons had been attacked. That had obviously been what Thawan had used. Lyons looked at the long, straight red welt across his forehead.
“At least he hit you in a nonvital area,” Schwarz said.
They took some time to secure the area as best they could. The local police had not arrived yet, and for that the team members were grateful. There would be time for that complication in due course; right now, they needed to see if there were any clues to the Triangle’s activities among what was left of the meth lab and the surrounding buildings. Lyons and Schwarz went back out to the front of the residence trailer as Blancanales searched from building to building, Schwarz pestering Lyons to within an inch of his life.
“Seriously, Carl, you could have a concussion,” Schwarz advised.
“Do I look like I do?” Lyons growled back. “I don’t have time for this crap.”
Schwarz examined Lyons again, checking his pupils and testing a few other vitals. “All right,” he said, “but if you start to feel any dizziness, nausea or light-headedness, you sing out. Don’t be a hero. I know that doesn’t exactly come naturally to you.”
“Whatever.” Lyons frowned.
“Hey, guys,” Blancanales said. “Look at this.” He had in his hand what Lyons at first took to be a sheaf of papers. When Blancanales got closer, the big ex-cop realized the man held a badly folded road map.
“What have you got, Pol?” Schwarz asked.
“Not the most subtle encryption job.” Blancanales grinned. He spread the map out over the seat of one of the parked motorcycles. A route was laid out in highlighter on the map, leading through New York State and beyond. At intervals, red marker had been used to flag certain cities. Numbers had been written in over these cities.
“You’re right,” Schwarz said. “I believe, with time, we can crack this code.”
“Knock it off,” Lyons grumbled. He put his hand to his face and then to the back of his aching head. “Analysis.”
“Clearly drop points,” Schwarz said. “Even better, turn it over.”
Pol realized that Schwarz was looking at something on the curled corner of the map. He flipped it and they saw another set of notations written in the margin next to one of the street grid listings. It read, “Van 1, Van 2, Van 3.” Under each of these headings was a list of product quantities with the letters H and M.
“Heroin,” Schwarz said, “and meth.”
“And three vans.” Lyons nodded. He immediately regretted moving his head that much.
“Looks like we’ve got the route they plan to use,” Blancanales said.
“And that’s powerful information for NetScythe,” Schwarz said. “We can use this to coordinate with the Farm and intercept those vans before they get where they’re going.”
“We know where they’re going, don’t we?” Lyons asked.
“Yes, but not when,” Schwarz said. “We can use this data so Barb and NetScythe can help us figure out when they’re likely to get there. Then we can arrange to be there right on schedule.”
“That I like,” Lyons said. “Call the Farm. Arrange for a cleanup crew out here. Let’s police up what we can and get gone before the cops come and start asking us about the body count. And let’s make sure this place doesn’t burn to the ground while we’re at it. No need to cause a forest fire.” He paused, making a sour face. “Also, make sure Barb knows that I saw Thawan but he got away.”
“Don’t sweat it, Ironman,” Schwarz offered. “We’ll get him.”
“Oh, we will,” Lyons said. “And when we do, I owe him a nearly broken face.”
“Payback?” Schwarz asked.
“Payback hell.” Lyons shook his head, groaning. “That’s just me saying hello.”
“I’d hate to see you say goodbye, then,” Schwarz said.
“So will Thawan,” Lyons vowed.
CHAPTER SIX
Outside Yangon, Union of Myanmar
The slight Chinese man, gaunt and wiry even for an Asian, was dressed in a loose-fitting pair of drawstring cotton trousers and a rumpled, matching shirt with baggy sleeves. The flowing garment had not entirely concealed the butt of the stainless-steel revolver in his waistband, next to his skin over his appendix. McCarter had taken note of that when they met and exchanged code phrases at the airport. The Briton didn’t know exactly how much in bribe money, international saber rattling or other geopolitical pressure had been brought to bear here in Myanmar. All that mattered was that the old Toyota Land Cruiser had been waiting for them, Customs hadn’t met or searched their chartered plane and nobody had challenged the men of Phoenix Force, who were carrying weapons most certainly illegal to the mere mortals on the ground in what had once been Burma.
Yangon, for that matter, was better known to most people as Rangoon. McCarter did not care much for the way various parts of the world, and the former British Empire, much to his chagrin, had been renamed, rebranded and repackaged in the past few decades…but then, nobody was asking him, and he had better things to be worrying about. He forced himself to focus on the task at hand.
The little Chinese man had introduced himself only as Peng. Price had transmitted a limited dossier from the Farm on the flight in. Peng’s name had been offered by Interpol when a discreet query regarding local assets was made through the international intelligence community’s various networks. The Farm had gotten word to Peng and he had simply turned up at a time and place specified, whereupon arrangements for his rendezvous with Phoenix were made. Supposedly he was intimately familiar with the Triangle’s operations, though why that was the case was either classified or unknown. McCarter had to admit that knowing so little about their guide, the man who was supposed to be the key to getting close to and inside the Triangle’s operation here in Burma, made him nervous.
Peng’s exact governmental affiliation was unspecified in his dossier, which meant it was secret. That told McCarter the man was a double agent of some kind, probably tied to the local intelligence services while working for, and feeding intel to, the Central Intelligence Agency. The specific agency might vary and Peng’s true story might be something else, but the Farm vouched for him as far as it could, which meant he was probably trustworthy.
Peng was Chinese Burmese, specifically, part of a community of Chinese immigrants to the nation, raised from childhood in Myanmar. From the look of him he might have been of mixed race; it would explain his skin tone, among other things. The Chinese Burmese population was widely known to be underreported in Myanmar. Standing officially at three percent, the true figure was probably much higher. That little factoid had been part of Price’s electronic briefing package.
Peng’s file also said that he spoke Burmese, Mandarin and English, as well as a couple of obscure dialects specific to upper Burma. He was supposed to be expert with small arms and no slouch with a blade—which, if McCarter’s eyes did not deceive him, he carried on a metal ball chain around his neck under his shirt. The little man had said nothing after their initial exchange, simply pointing in the direction they were to take the Land Cruiser once Phoenix Force was aboard and ready.
Grimaldi had stayed at the airfield to guard the plane and keep it ready for a fast departure. While it would have been nice to have his air support for the mission, they had been unable to secure a suitable local equivalent to the Cobra gunship Grimaldi had flown in Thailand. Other choppers were available, but they were unarmed civilian models. To McCarter’s mind the benefit of having Grimaldi’s eyes in the sky was not sufficient to risk turning the pilot into a target, albeit an airborne and moving one.
Through whatever technology and magic the NetScythe satellite employed, the Farm had been able to identify a facility in Burma that was, if not the termination of a Triangle drug trafficking line between Thailand and Myanmar, at least a major spoke in the network. The exact nature of the facility was unknown; satellite thermal imagery registered that it was there, in an area thick with vegetation. That was why Peng had been drafted for this duty; he was their local guide. He knew the terrain, knew the landmarks and knew the local crime scene. He would, at least in theory, stop them from reinventing any wheels as they performed their mission. If he had any thoughts about where he’d rather be or whether he wanted to be helping the Stony Man commandos penetrate what was looking like an increasingly isolated location miles from Yangon, he was keeping that to himself.
As if reading McCarter’s mind, Peng spoke up in English. His accent was noticeable but not impenetrable. “You will come to a fork in the road,” he said. “Take the right fork, and move slowly. We will have to stop frequently.”
“Stop for what?” T. J. Hawkins asked. He was driving the Land Cruiser. Peng was seated in the passenger seat. McCarter and the other members of Phoenix Force rode in the back of the big old SUV, whose suspension was functional but had obviously seen better days.
“We will need to stop to defuse each mine,” Peng said calmly.
“Wait, what?” Hawkins said, his drawl shortening as he looked at Peng with concern. “There are mines?”
“Every mile or so.” Peng nodded. “For the unwary.”
“Bloody hell,” McCarter muttered.
“So the Triangle are known by the locals to be operating here?” Encizo asked from the backseat.
“Of course,” Peng confirmed. “The operation is large enough that it would be impossible to hide. They do not try to hide it. The police, the military…they are paid to stay away. The Triangle protects its holdings with violence so total that none dare oppose it.”
From his seat between Encizo and James—Manning was sitting with the equipment in the rear cargo area—McCarter looked at Peng sharply. Something about the way the man had said that sounded bitter. The Briton found himself wondering precisely what the history between Peng and the Triangle might be.
“What’s the Triangle’s body count around here?” Calvin James asked.
Peng looked back over his shoulder at the black man. “Body count?” “He means,” McCarter said, “just how much damage do they do in the course of their operations? What price is paid to allow them to keep running?”
Peng was silent for a moment. He looked out the window as the scenery jounced past. “The price is high,” he said finally. “High for some, at any rate. The Triangle cares little for human life. All who get in the way, or those who are no longer useful, are discarded. Removed, like vermin…or like garbage. Many die. Many more are never seen again, and must be dead, but none can say.”
McCarter frowned. This was what they fought; this was the reason the trade in which the Triangle engaged was far from the victimless crime some would claim drug use to be. Demand for drugs in Western nations fueled regimes tolerant of this type of cancer. It supported murderers like the Triangle and, if McCarter was any judge of people, it led to the victimization of people like Peng, or of their friends and loved ones.
“Gary,” McCarter said, gesturing to Manning, “give him a hand when it comes to it.”
The big Canadian nodded. Peng made no comment. McCarter’s motives were not altogether altruistic; Peng was trustworthy enough, or so the Farm said, but McCarter wanted someone from the team to keep an eye on him during any activities as sensitive as dealing with explosives that could kill them all. He didn’t intend to let Peng out of their sight for the duration of the operation. Unless and until Peng did something that proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that he could not be compromised by the enemy, McCarter and the members of Phoenix Force would be careful around him. McCarter thought it unlikely that Peng would double-cross them, though. Unless he was an Oscar-caliber actor, his hatred for the Triangle was very real. That alone did not make him trustworthy, however. The former SAS commando had seen plenty of men lose their heads and do something rash out of blind hatred.
Hawkins guided the Land Cruiser through the ruts of the twisting dirt road. Tree and scrub cover closed in around them; the area had a lush, claustrophobic feel to it. They were on the cusp of the rainy season, which meant the temperatures weren’t too bad, and the morning shower had already fallen. McCarter was familiar enough with the country to know to expect more rain that afternoon, most likely.
“There,” Peng said, pointing to a hump of earth not far ahead. It looked identical to several other mounds they had passed or even driven over along the way.
“Why this one?” McCarter asked as Hawkins stopped the Land Cruiser.
“It is six,” Peng said. It took McCarter a moment to realize what the smaller man meant. Peng had been counting the mounds.
I just hope he doesn’t lose count as we go, he thought.
Peng climbed out of the Land Cruiser. Manning opened the rear hatch and climbed out over the gear, his Kalashnikov at the ready with the stock folded. McCarter watched as the big Canadian kept a close eye on Peng and on the surrounding area as Peng worked. The Chinese Burmese operative, using a small entrenching tool borrowed from the gear in the truck, dug out the end of the mound and exposed a large metal disk about the size of a dinner plate. A wire trailed from the center of the heavy disk and disappeared into the earth mound.
“There will be a string of these,” Peng explained, “perhaps six or seven, through the length of the mound. Pressure from a vehicle will detonate the string.”
“How powerful?” McCarter asked. He had gotten out of the truck and was standing by the passenger door.
