Season of Harm. Don Pendleton

      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