Shadow War. Don Pendleton

blood gushed in sudden torrents.

      The man went limp and the pistol fell from slack fingers. Hawkins rose, pulled his auto-injector free and shot it into the unconscious man’s neck.

      He turned and saw the rest of Phoenix Force looking at him.

      â€œWhat?” he asked, catching his breath.

      â€œNothing,” Manning said with a shrug. “If you’re through playing with your food, do you think we could continue?”

      â€œSure, no problem.”

      â€œNext time I’m not going to give you a fancy toy if you’re not going to use it right,” James said.

      â€œFuck ’em,” Hawkins replied. “They work for scum. They’re lucky the powers that be didn’t want corpses on friendly soil.”

      â€œLet’s roll,” Manning said.

       CHAPTER FIVE

      From his overwatch position Gadgets Schwarz saw Rosario Blancanales fall. He saw the incongruous figure of a schoolgirl stumble back, a bloody knife in her fist. He shifted the shortened muzzle of his Steyr AUG A3 toward the female as she stabbed Blancanales a second time.

      The aiming reticle of his 1.5X power telescope filled with the young woman’s figure as she swept her knife up. She staggered in his sight as he attempted to put a 5.56 mm Teflon-coated round through the left side of her rib cage.

      But the close-quarters battle exploded into a frenzy of activity as one of the Zetas gunslingers recovered his composure on Carl Lyons’s flank and stepped into Schwarz’s line of fire. The man raised a Browning Hi-Power pistol and triggered a round into the Able Team leader’s back that was soaked up by his Kevlar body armor.

      Lyons staggered under the impact as Schwarz put the man down. The Able Team leader triggered his assault shotgun, and suddenly the warehouse echoed with the sound of the full automatic 12-gauge weapon.

      Bodies spun and were flung like rag dolls from the impact of .440 stainless-steel fléchettes that ripped through flesh and shredded internal organs. Blood and brain and bits of bone struck the corrugated walls of the old warehouse, and the metal structure rang as rounds punched through it.

      Then there was silence.

      From his position at the window Schwarz shifted his Steyr AUG, scanning the area. Nothing moved. He snapped the barrel to a different vector and found all still.

      Carl Lyons stood at the point of the unit’s triangle formation, his smoking shotgun pointed downward, his ears ringing from the booming of his own weapon.

      For a second he couldn’t understand Schwarz’s frantic shouting, then his hearing returned well enough for him to make out what his teammate was hollering. Lyons spun, searching the floor for Blancanales.

      He saw the unconscious Latino sprawled out, one hand still clutching his weapon, the other resting on an ugly mess of a wound leaking blood across his lap. Schwarz burst through the door and began checking Zetas bodies as Lyons made his way through the carnage toward his downed friend.

      Blancanales’s breathing was shallow and forced, his color obviously bad, even in the uncertain light. Blancanales himself often served as Able Team’s field medic, so it was from his kit that Carl Lyons stripped the first-aid equipment.

      He set down his shotgun and brought a soft, OD green plastic package to his teeth and ripped it open. He moved Blancanales’s hand to the side and spilled the contents of the packet on his open wound. Instantly the coagulation powder went to work, clotting the blood around the puncture wounds.

      Since Blancanales’s breathing was uncompromised, if laborious, and there was no other obvious wound, Lyons dedicated his attention to that injury first. Behind him Schwarz kept his weapon in one hand and used his other to call in the team’s helicopter.

      â€œHelp us,” moaned one of the hanging prisoners.

      â€œShut up,” Lyons snapped.

      He finished securing a second pressure dressing over Blancanales’s wound. The Latino’s eyes fluttered open, glazed with pain, and Lyons could see the man struggle toward coherency through the force of sheer willpower.

      â€œWe good?” Blancanales asked.

      â€œYeah,” Lyons answered softly. “Jack’s coming. We’ll have you medevaced in no time. I hear the chopper now.”

      â€œThe girl?”

      â€œShe’s out, buddy. You’re lucky you’re still spry for such an old fart.”

      â€œScrew you,” Blancanales said. His teeth were gritted through the pain. “Help me stand.”

      â€œNegative,” Lyons said. “You’re bleeding internally. You try to walk, and you’ll rip your guts open.”

      The big ex-cop put a heavy hand on Blancanales’s chest, keeping the stubborn man down. As he did so, he noticed the man’s abdomen pushing out and becoming rigid right before his eyes. The internal bleeding was bad, Lyons realized, rapidly filling the spaces between his internal organs inside his torso. The clock was ticking on the wounded man.

      Blancanales winced as he sank back down and Lyons pulled a loaded morphine syringe from Blancanales’s medic kit. As he prepped the needle, he called over his shoulder at the third member of the team. Outside he could hear the sound of Jack Grimaldi’s chopper.

      â€œHow we doing?” Lyons asked.

      â€œGood,” Schwarz answered. Having made sure all the hostile personnel were down, he walked over to the hanging men. One of them was a dripping corpse. Brains clung to the dead man’s shirt and blood spilled freely down his body from the gaping hole in his head, creating a growing puddle at his feet.

      â€œWho knows Hart?” Schwarz asked the remaining two prisoners, using the CIA case officer’s pseudonym. “Come on, who knows Hart? I hope to Christ it wasn’t this guy.” The Able Team commando gestured toward the corpse.

      Gonzales turned his head. “Bellicose Dawn,” he muttered. He felt exhausted, dried out like a piece of fruit turned to leather in the sun. “Hart wanted to know about Bellicose Dawn.”

      â€œLet’s get you out of here,” Schwarz said.

      While Lyons gave Blancanales a shot to help him manage the overwhelming pain, Schwarz began undoing the manacles locked around Gonzales’s wrists. The informant sagged onto his feet, fighting back tears of relief. He stripped off his sweat-and blood-soaked shirt and tucked it into his pants to cover himself. He felt a sudden urge to spit on the bodies of Lagos and the unconscious Marta, but restrained himself. A distracted part of his mind cataloged the vivid, ugly scar on Lagos’s throat.

      â€œDon’t get bashful now,” Schwarz warned. “I got a hurt brother, and you’re coming out to help me get one of the stretcher benches attached to my chopper.”

      â€œMy family—” Gonzales began.

      â€œCovered,” Schwarz cut him off. “Your boy Hart already arranged that. Now let’s move.”

      â€œWhat about me!” the last prisoner demanded, his voice frantic.

      â€œDon’t worry. You’ll only be hanging a few more minutes. We’ll call the locals and tell them they have a cleanup on aisle ten. You’ll be fine.”

      â€œYou can’t leave me hanging here!” the man cried.

      â€œPeople judge you by the company you keep, asshole,” Schwarz snapped. “Now shut up or I’ll leave