Power Grab. Don Pendleton

reloaded a new drum magazine in his shotgun. He advanced on the van.

      “Check them!” Lyons said. “If anybody’s still alive we need medical attention rolling.” A live prisoner might mean valuable intelligence about the terrorist network Ovan was fielding. Lyons didn’t like the idea that technology was their only lead in this mission. The cop in him told him they needed something else, some human element, some information that would give them an edge over their enemies. With only an electronic leash to lead them around, they were vulnerable. If they lost the initiative he wasn’t sure they’d be able to get it back, and that worried him. Too many lives were riding on this…and the terrorist attack on the mall was already all over the news, cycling through the twenty-four-hour cable networks. More attacks would raise public response to the level of panic. Nobody wanted that…and Able Team, thanks to their one-of-a-kind gizmo and the Warlock network, were the three men standing between Ovan’s terrorists and complete chaos in the United States.

      No, he didn’t like the idea at all. But he would do his job, and so would Blancanales and Schwarz. They always did.

      “Nothing here,” Schwarz said.

      “Mine’s dead,” Blancanales reported.

      Lyons didn’t bother to look at his man; there was no surviving the head shot that gunner had suffered.

      Inside the van, he found another one.

      The gunman was slumped in a corner of the cargo area, a Makarov pistol on the floor beside him. There was a bullet hole in his temple and a spray of blood on the interior of the van above and behind him.

      In his free hand was a cell phone. A voice on the other end was still speaking.

      Lyons picked it up and listened. He handed it to Schwarz, who listened. The connection was terminated from the other end.

      “Probably Turkmen,” Schwarz guessed. “Not in my repertoire.”

      Lyons pocketed the phone. “Jack,” he said. “Are you reading us?”

      “Loud and clear,” Grimaldi answered from the chopper.

      “Have a courier detailed to meet us, soonest,” he said. “Coordinate with your flight plan, however we can work it out. I’ve got a cell phone here that I want analyzed.”

      “Will do.”

      Lyons glanced into the back of the van. Two of the suitcase-size bombs were inside. “They’re not active?” he asked.

      “Not according to this,” Schwarz said, pointing the scanner at the bombs.

      “Then let’s pack them up and get back on the chopper,” Lyons said, looking around. “We’re only just getting started.”

      CHAPTER THREE

      Tehran, Iran

      The Volkswagen diesel microbus pulled up to the curb as the men of Phoenix Force, completely unarmed and traveling under the false papers of Canadian reporters from a fictional news outlet, left Imam Khomeini International Airport. Named for the leader of the 1979 Iranian revolution, the airport had been closed and reopened several times in the scuffle over whether or not the facility was run by foreign contractors. David McCarter remembered reading some years back that the airport’s runway had supposedly been built over ancient subterranean waterways and was therefore somehow unstable. Nothing had given way when their Kish Air flight from Dubai had landed, however. McCarter was grateful for that, and grateful that they were done bouncing around all over the globe to complete their successful transit into hostile territory. He grew tired of the secret-agent games and sometimes wondered if they ever truly fooled anyone for long.

      Unarmed as he was, McCarter knew a moment’s concern when he sat in the passenger seat of the van. If the man meeting them wasn’t who he was supposed to be, there would be little they could do about it.

      “Hello,” the man behind the wheel said as he guided the van away from the loading and unloading area. “My name is Ghaem Ahmadi. I am officially a well-placed operative within the Iranian Internal Security force.”

      “Officially?” McCarter asked.

      “Unofficially, Uncle Sam asks me to extend his greetings on behalf of the Central Intelligence Agency.” Ahmadi smiled. He had a gap-toothed grin set wide in a smooth, olive-skinned face. His dark eyes and round face gave him an almost somber look, as if he was in mourning, and the smile that creased his features seemed incongruous. He wore nondescript civilian clothing and a light windbreaker, much as the members of Phoenix Force did.

      “Pleased to meet you,” McCarter said. “A little birdie tells me the weather here’s doing okay lately.”

      “It is hotter than Texas but drier than Arizona,” Ahmadi said, and grimaced at the awkward code phrases. “You are satisfied?”

      “I am,” McCarter said. “I imagine you’d be hauling us to a dungeon somewhere if you weren’t.”

      “I imagine as much, as well,” Ahmadi said.

      They traveled in silence for a time. It was a relatively clear day in a city known for its cloying smog. Mc Carter could see Milad Tower in the distance, and beyond that, the Alborz mountains were visible. As they moved through the city he was struck by how modern and cosmopolitan it looked and felt. It wasn’t at all the type of backward, repressive society he knew it to be, not from the outside. Of course, you didn’t have to look far to see the fear in people’s eyes whenever one of the uniformed paramilitary Iranian Internal Security goons neared. The IIS had been one of the innovations Magham’s government had brought to an already oppressed people. The paramilitary IIS squads strutted through the streets of the city as if they owned it—which, for all intents and purposes, they did.

      The city was home to some eight million people, thirteen million if you included the surrounding metro area. It was also the governmental capital and economic hub of Iran, although McCarter thought he remembered reading that the government was still mulling over moving the seat of government to another location. He didn’t suppose that would make too much difference in terms of the mission ahead of them. He was, however, only too aware that he and his men were deep in a country that was no friend to the United States, with very little recourse should things go awry. They were heavily dependent on the extensive network the CIA had developed covertly in Iran.

      “You are fidgeting in your seat,” Ahmadi said. “I believe I know why.” His round face again crinkled into something like a smile as he gestured to the men in the rear bench seats. His accent was pronounced, but he was clearly fluent in English.

      “Let’s just say I am very attuned to our situation,” McCarter said.

      Ahmadi laughed. “I like how this is put. Yes. I like it.” He gestured again. “Very discreetly, look under your seats. I received a special request for you, Mister…?”

      “David,” McCarter said. The team would use their first names only in a covert situation like this.

      “Mr. David.” Ahmadi smiled again. “I received a special request for the leader of my guests, and I did what I could to provide for the others.”

      McCarter reached under his seat and felt a familiar shape: the grip of a Browning Hi-Power, as it turned out. He checked the weapon as best he could, keeping it low near the floor to prevent it from being seen by pedestrians and other drivers. There was a clip-on holster that he affixed inside his waistband, under his windbreaker, and a small mountain of extra magazines that he placed in his pockets.

      He glanced back to see that his teammates had been provided with similar setups and Glock pistols, the compact Model 19. He nodded his approval to Ahmadi.

      “The Glock 19 is the pistol of the IIS,” he explained. “Relatively easy for me to get. Untraceable except back to the armory of the IIS. The Browning was more difficult, but all things are possible with motivation.”

      “Much appreciated.” McCarter nodded. “Were you able to get us anything heavier?”