Critical Effect. Don Pendleton

The guy kept ducking his head, moving it up and down in an attempt to find a target. He appeared to be fixated on McCarter’s and James’s positions. Manning figured he’d get maybe three or four of them before they’d pinpoint his position. He took a deep breath, counted to four, let out half and squeezed the trigger. The enemy gunman’s head exploded in a crimson cloud that seemed to erupt from his neck as the guy’s skull caved under the impact.

      Manning swung the muzzle to the right and left in search of his next target.

      R AFAEL E NCIZO AND T .J. Hawkins made excellent time.

      In just eight minutes, the Phoenix Force commandos had managed to flank their enemy. Eight minutes could turn into what seemed like hours under heavy fire, but Encizo could only hope his friends had maintained a foothold on their area. In another moment or two, they would hopefully turn the tables on their attackers. The ever-increasing sounds of autofire signaled they drew nearer to the enemy’s position. Encizo called a halt and the two came together to confer.

      “I’d say maybe twenty meters ahead?” the little Cuban said.

      Hawkins nodded. “Sounds about right. It’s your show. How do you want to do this?”

      “I’ll go right and you go left. About a hundred meters. If you catch them bunched up, use grenades. Otherwise, we’ll have to pick them off one at a time.”

      “Cool,” Hawkins said.

      Encizo flashed him a grin. “Good luck, amigo.”

      “Same to ya’ll,” Hawkins said, and he whirled and disappeared into the deep brush.

      Encizo made distance to the agreed point and then swung around at the sounds of weapons fire, carefully estimating approximate positions. He could really hear the shooting now, and the woods had started to thin, growing lighter as he drew near the wood line. The smell of gunpowder tickled his nostrils, and a moment later Encizo stopped dead in his tracks. Directly ahead lay the first target, planted on his belly behind a bipod-mounted machine gun. The Cuban grimaced, cursing himself for not being more alert.

      He’d been closer to the wood line than he originally thought.

      Encizo reached to his equipment harness and withdrew a Cold Steel Tanto combat knife as he quietly slung his weapon on his left shoulder, barrel down. He crouched, looked around one more time, then charged his opponent and threw himself prone. The enemy gunner detected something was wrong, but he did so a moment too late. Encizo was on him. The man tried to resist, but his attempts died with him as Encizo plunged the combat knife deep into the side of the man’s neck, slicing through tendons and arteries.

      Encizo waited until the man stopped struggling beneath him and then removed the knife and wiped it clean. He stowed it back in its sheath and rose just a moment before he heard the slap of footfalls crunching leaves and sticks. Encizo whirled and whipped up his MP-5, bringing the weapon to bear just in time to prevent his opponent from cutting him in two.

      The machete glanced off the barrel of the SMG with a loud metallic clang that seemed to reverberate through the woods. Encizo whipped the stock around and caught his opponent with a blow to the temple. He followed up with a front kick to the knee. The man’s leg gave only partially and yet the distraction proved enough to grant Encizo the advantage. The MP-5 would not be viable in such close-quarter combat, but that didn’t stop Encizo from reaching to his thigh and unleathering his Glock 21.

      Encizo squeezed the trigger at point-blank range and put a bullet through the man’s upper lip. The impact ripped away a good part of his jaw and punched him backward to the ground.

      T HE SINGLE PISTOL SHOT from the enemy’s area of operation seemed out of place enough to draw their attention in the direction Encizo had gone.

      Hawkins knew he couldn’t worry about that, however—he had his own battle to fight. That battle started off all wrong as he somehow managed to get bushwhacked by a treetop observer. He hadn’t thought to look for such a trap, and the force with which he’d been knocked to the ground and set upon clearly demonstrated his mistake.

      Still, Hawkins had survived worse experiences.

      The Phoenix Force warrior seemed to have two things his opponent did not: speed and experience. Hawkins quickly recovered the initial blow by bringing his head back and catching his adversary square on the nose. Hawkins felt the warm blood pepper his head and ears as he came away, and the arm wrapped around his throat loosened its hold considerably. Rising to one knee, Hawkins bucked his lower back and sent his opponent sailing over him. He immediately executed a somersault and came down on the man’s chest with the heel of his boot. All remaining fight in his opponent dissipated.

      Two men who had been up on the wood line firing toward his friends left their positions and swung their weapons toward him. Hawkins responded with catlike reflexes, rolling to his left in time to avoid a hail of gunfire. He came out of the roll on one knee. The muzzle of his Colt Model 635 flashed as 9 mm Parabellum rounds punched holes through the pair of enemy gunners. One took a full burst to the belly, which ripped out his guts. The second gunner caught two rounds to the head, which nearly decapitated him.

      A sudden, violent explosion erupted nearby, and Hawkins hit the ground in anticipation the next one would be closer. All at once, it seemed as if all sound ceased—as though someone had stopped the world via remote—and Hawkins didn’t move for a full minute. He waited and listened, watched for additional enemy, but there were no further outbreaks of autofire.

      It looked like the battle had ended.

      Hawkins rose and went to the side of the man who’d jumped him. He felt for a pulse at the man’s neck and quickly determined he’d live. Hawkins raised his rifle at the crunching approach of feet but Encizo quickly came into view.

      “It’s me, Rafe,” he said loudly and clearly. “Don’t get itchy.”

      Hawkins pointed downward at the unconscious form.

      “Looks like you managed to take one alive,” Encizo said. “That’ll make the other boys real happy.”

      “If he talks,” Hawkins said.

      Encizo’s smile lacked any warmth. “Oh, he’ll talk. Cal will see to that.”

      “How many did you get?”

      “Two under small-arms, three more by grenade.”

      “I took out those two over there,” Hawkins replied, gesturing in the direction of the deceased. “Including this one, that puts the count at eight. That’s not many.”

      “Enough for an ambush. Any ID on them?”

      Hawkins shook his head. “Haven’t had the chance to check yet.”

      “Well, I’ll go gather up the rest of the boys while you do that.”

      As Encizo turned to leave, Hawkins called, “Hey, Rafe?”

      “Yeah?”

      “Hell of a good call you made here.”

      The Cuban warrior just grinned, nodded, then headed off to give his teammates the all-clear signal.

       CHAPTER FIVE

      Calvin James studied the prisoner intently as Phoenix Force trudged through the woods in the direction of civilization. They had bound the man’s hands behind his back with plastic riot cuffs, then attached those to a thin rope. Manning agreed to take the first watch duty and tied the rope securely to his harness. They now strode side by side, with James, McCarter and Encizo to the rear.

      The prisoner had stared defiantly at them for a while, but once they set off on their hike across the German countryside, he’d dropped his gaze and held his tongue. James had tried more civilized methods to get the man to speak but he adamantly refused, apparently convinced it was better to remain utterly silent. In most other scenarios his actions would have been impressive, even commendable, but in this case it would only prove to make things more difficult