Red Frost. Don Pendleton

toluene, acetone and isopropyl alcohol. They rolled the heavy drums across the hard-packed dirt and deposited them in front of the customized cargo container.

      Blancanales showed a tad too much interest in the proceedings. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a blow coming from behind, but was too late to avoid it. The bamboo club whipcracked between his shoulder blades, making him stumble a half step forward. His flesh went numb. For a moment he couldn’t breathe; his chest was paralyzed from the shock. Then his back burned as if it had been blowtorched. He knew he had been cut. He could feel hot blood trickling down his spine.

      “¡Rápido!” the man who’d struck him growled.

      Blancanales glared over his shoulder at a potbellied thug in a tattered straw cowboy hat. The top three snaps of his faded denim Western shirt were undone, exposing a hairless brown chest. His round cheeks were cratered with pocks of assorted sizes, as if he’d taken a load of birdshot point-blank. His small black eyes were set close together under a single black eyebrow. A tooled leather scabbard riding high on his left hip held a stag-handled, gold-pommeled and cross-guarded guthook sheath knife.

      The mafia enforcer took Blancanales’s stare as a direct challenge. He raised the bamboo club high overhead. His little eyes glittered with delight when his intended victim didn’t raise his hands to protect himself.

      Hidden autopistol in hand, Blancanales stood his ground. He was already in position. Lyons and Schwarz both had line of sight on him.

      It was as good a time as any to start the party.

      Blancanales pivoted his hips, turning sideways to his attacker, poking the sound suppressor’s muzzle from behind the bibfront. The Beretta chugged once in his fist. The muffled gunshot was lost in the clatter of heavily loaded dollies rolling down steel ramps.

      The 9 mm round caught the cowboy dead center in his torso, just below the tip of his sternum. Grimacing, he clutched at his chest with his free hand. His mouth opened wide, but no sound came out, just a puff of bright blood mist, propelled by an explosive final breath. His right knee buckled and he crumpled, dropping onto his face, loose and boneless like a bag of beans. There was no exit wound out the middle of his back—the subsonic Parabellum round lacked the power to through and through.

      One of the other cowboys saw him drop and rushed over to render aid. The ranchero knelt beside the fallen man. When the cowboy grabbed his friend’s shoulder and turned him over, the weeping red hole was there for all to see. Putting two and two together, proximity and conflict, the cowboy jumped to his feet, swinging his sawed-off 12-gauge around on its shoulder sling. “¡Asesino!” he howled at Blancanales.

      This time Blancanales shielded his eyes with a forearm, but not to defend himself from a load of double-aught buck.

      A 709-grains boattail slug transformed the cowboy’s skull, crown to chin, into pink vapor and hot, wet shrapnel an instant before the hollow boom of the Barrett fifty rolled over the camp.

      WHEN THE COWBOY RAISED the club to strike Blancanales in the face, Lyons had the green light. He yanked the MP-5 SD-3s from their scabbards and scrambled out of the ditch. As he straightened his legs, both of his buttocks cramped up. When he broke into a run anyway, it felt as if they’d been speared crossways with a barbecue skewer.

      The pain didn’t slow him down; it made him a whole lot madder.

      Lyons had trained in Shotokan karate, but his natural fighting style was pure berserker. He relied on split-second reactions and survival instinct. Wildman rage and the accompanying adrenaline rush helped to ramp up both.

      In squishy wet boots, the big man charged across open ground for the rear of the shotgun shack, forcing his legs to move under him, stomping the feeling back into his feet. He angled hard to the left, out of Schwarz’s lane of fire. The tumbledown shack and the meth lab just beyond it momentarily concealed his advance. On the far side of those structures, slaves and slavemasters were preoccupied with the unloading of the still idling rental trucks.

      Lyons had assigned himself the task of reaching last truck in line, thereby outflanking the enemy, dividing their fire and compressing the battle in time and space.

      It was the only way a handful of attackers could annihilate an opposition six times their number.

      As Lyons ran from the front of the shack, sprinting across the strip of hardpan for the corner of the cargo container, Schwarz cut loose with the Barrett. Twenty yards to Lyons’s right a round whined past at chin height. Even though he knew it was coming, even though he had heard it many times before, the sound of that much lead flying by made the short hairs stand up on the back of his neck.

      Five long strides brought him to the end of the meth lab and gave him a clear view of the last two trucks in line. On the sides of the cargo boxes above a screen painting of a joyous, all-American family in transit was the rental company’s ad slogan, Moving Your Way.

      No one in Lyons’s sights was moving, though. The cannonlike bellow of the Light Fifty had frozen the slaves and their keepers in place.

      Lyons broke from cover, rushing trucks 3 and 4. As the Barrett’s report echoed off in the distance, the legitimate targets and innocent bystanders started running in all directions. It was like one of those computer-simulated target-acquisition training systems, except instead of one shooter there were more than fifteen, and instead of one hostage there were at least twenty.

      A torrent of gunfire roared to his right, out of sight, on the far side of the meth lab. It wasn’t directed at him. Somewhere in the back of his mind the weapons’ distinctive sound signatures registered: shotguns, pistols and sustained bursts from AK-47s, all of them presumably tracking Blancanales and pouring return fire on the combine.

      The quartet of bangers at the last two trucks saw Lyons coming between the bodies of the slow-moving slaves. How could they miss him? Honking big dude, all in black, ski mask pulled down to his chin, silenced machine pistols raised in both fists. The bangers responded in a way Lyons couldn’t, not with a firing lane choked by noncombatants. As the cowboys back-stepped to cover between truck 4’s front bumper and Truck 3’s rear, they opened up with blue-steel 9 mm autopistols, shooting around, then through the panicked, hobbled workers.

      Close-range body and head shots blew the stumbling, helpless obstacles off their bare feet.

      Almost simultaneously the Barrett boomed again. Truck 4’s front end rocked hard as it absorbed a .50-caliber round. On impact, the hood delatched and popped partway up. A piercing metal-on-metal screech erupted from the bowels of the idling V-8 as the AP slug plowed through its block. A fraction of an instant later, the engine let out a final, grinding clank as tie rods and pistons broke loose. Smoke and steam boiled from the engine compartment. Hot oil and antifreeze sprayed over the crouched bangers.

      Lyons took advantage of the cleared firing lane. As he charged, he cut loose with both MP-5 SD-3s, 3-round bursts to minimize muzzle climb. Staggering backward, half-blinded and panicked, the gangsters tried to return fire. The one in front, a baggy-pants wide boy with blue tats covering both arms from wrists to elbows took a point-blank round from one of his own homeys through the back of the head. The right side of his face just vanished, revealing a red crater from eyebrow to cheek. Gushing bright arterial blood, brain-dead on his feet, he toppled to the dirt.

      The MP-5 SD-3s stuttered in Lyons’s big fists, saturating the killzone as he closed the ten yards of intervening ground. Twisting in agony under the hail of slugs, the three bangers went down hard.

      And stayed down.

      Lyons jumped over the jerking bodies, slipping between trucks 3 and 4. Slaves were bellycrawling under the chassis, taking cover behind the steel wheels. Through the greasy smoke billowing from the engine compartment, he could see others robot-walking across the fields, stray bullets whizzing around them, kicking up puffs of soil.

      When he peeked around the cargo box, two of the remaining four bangers were in full retreat, joining up with the cowboys who had taken cover beside the first truck and the front of the cargo container meth lab.

      A couple of the cowboys were facedown in the dirt.