Extreme Arsenal. Don Pendleton

and pulled out a spare pistol rug. McCarter unzipped it and revealed a Glock G-34 in 9 mm Parabellum and a smaller Glock 26 in the same caliber. He held up the blocky pistol. The members of Phoenix Force were evaluating the handguns, and as the leader of the team, he had reluctantly accepted the pistol to wring out at a couple of ranges with his fellow SAS men. Calvin James and Rafael Encizo had been the first to fall in love with the Austrian-built handgun and managed to recruit Gary Manning and T.J. Hawkins to their side. The fact that the two men had been able to shoot the gun under water, and had done so in combat, only endeared it further to the experienced divers. The grip, though a little more square, was similar in feel to his Browning. In 9 mm, the G-34 had a 4-shot greater capacity to his beloved Browning, with only a shade more height and thickness to compromise its concealment. Since he usually dressed in oversize, often rumpled clothing, that was no problem.

      “The times, they are a changin’,” McCarter murmured as he checked to make sure the chamber was loaded. Assured that the Glock was hot, he holstered the gun. The New York 1 trigger, in Glock nonclementure, meant that it was a trigger-cocking only action, only needing a smooth, 7-pound pull of the trigger to fire off a shot. At first he was iffy about the lack of a thumb safety, but the New York trigger’s pull was enough to stave off a discharge and the pull of the Safe-Action trigger was as slick and complementary to precision shooting as the single-action trigger of his favored Browning. Plus, the members of the SAS that McCarter had been catching up with had been sold on the Glock family of handguns. The British elite troopers were very excited by the light, safe pull of the new series of pistols. As a bonus, the G-34, while being concealable, had a rail on the dust cover that allowed the men of Phoenix Force to attach laser-aiming modules or various flashlights for low-light combat.

      He stuffed the Glock into his waistband. He loaded the little Glock, as well, and deposited it back in the pistol rug.

      He zipped it up and carried it to the nightstand. The cell phone looked like a metallic dead rat, a reminder that, for all intents and purposes, his vacation was now over.

      Though on a busman’s holiday, McCarter was also in London to reinforce some old contacts in the SAS and MI-6, and he’d decided to spend some time with Pat. He plucked the cell from its resting spot in his suitcase and pressed the speed dial, reaching the Farm’s secure number.

      Barbara Price, as usual burning the midnight oil, took his call after Stony Man’s computers pronounced his signal clear of prying ears. “David?”

      “Hi, Barb. I came across a situation in England,” McCarter explained.

      “I know. David King showed up on Scotland Yard’s background check,” Price stated.

      “That’s why you’re awake—to chew me out, eh?” the Phoenix Force commander asked.

      “You know, it’s usually Striker or Carl who can’t take a decent vacation without getting into a war,” Price responded.

      “I felt left out,” McCarter quipped. He then broke into an account of the men he’d encountered and the murder of the old Hispanic man.

      “We’ve been running a check on the victim. Interpol’s firewall is giving Aaron’s team a headache,” Price said. “The name we entered activated their cyber-security and clamped things down tightly.”

      “Bloody inconvenient of them,” McCarter snapped.

      Price sighed. “It’s for the best. The firewall is under their witness protection protocols. It should be too tough to crack.”

      McCarter frowned. “That’s why he seemed so familiar.”

      “You might know who it is?” Price asked.

      “Try Roberto DaCosta,” McCarter suggested.

      Price muffled the receiver and passed on the information. McCarter waited, knowing it wouldn’t take long.

      “David?” Price asked.

      “What’d you find out?”

      “Roberto DaCosta was a Catholic bishop from El Salvador. He testified against the old Organización Democráticia Nacionalista—ORDEN—regime and the ESA. Able Team once pulled security for him against one of their teams,” Price responded. “It was a brutal, dirty mission.”

      McCarter frowned. “Well, I was too late to help him out. ORDEN…Did they hire American mercenaries?”

      “Why do you ask?” Price inquired.

      “They spoke English and they sounded American,” McCarter responded.

      “They have recruited experts from all around the world, but right now, ESA is pretty much a dead issue,” Price responded. “Most of them are either dead, deported or serving jail time. Again, a lot of ORDEN and their death squads went down hard under Able.”

      “Maybe someone had a plan to undeport,” McCarter replied.

      “Someone’s trying to make a comeback?”

      “Start the guys rattling cages,” McCarter answered. “I’m going to check out a few more things on this side of the pond.”

      “Do you want Phoenix over there?” Price asked.

      McCarter shook his head. “No. They could be put to better use working in tandem with Carl and his boys until we pick something up.”

      “All right. I’ll make sure one of Hal’s irregulars is on the case to get your pistols back,” Price responded. “Do you need to acquire some weapons?”

      “I’ve got the evaluation Glocks.”

      “Really? I never thought you’d be happy with the new Glock,” Price responded.

      McCarter patted the gun stuffed into his waistband. “It’s not that I have to be happy. If I’m going to trust this gun to protect my boys, then I have to trust it to protect my arse.”

      “I’ll mark this day in history,” Price joked.

      McCarter chuckled. “I’ll never hear the end of this, will I?”

      “Nope.”

      “I’ll be in touch,” he told her.

      “You’ll leave your phone on?” Price asked.

      “Yeah, I’ll keep my phone on. If you don’t reach me, leave a voice message,” McCarter replied. He hung up.

      CHAPTER TWO

      “Black seven on red eight.” McCarter’s voice cut through the darkness.

      Christopher Reasoner looked up from his table, solitaire cards splayed out. “It doesn’t count as a win if you get help, David.”

      McCarter, in a knee-length black peacoat, stepped from the shadows. He looked like a floating head in the darkness beyond the pale cone of light thrown down by the desk lamp. “Like you’d have noticed?”

      Reasoner moved the stack over under the red eight, then placed a blotter sheet on top of them. “What’s up, David?”

      “I’m looking for a ship that came in a while back, say within the past week,” McCarter replied. “They paid to be left alone.”

      “You know as a dock authority, I’m supposed to subject all craft to a search,” Reasoner answered. He laced his fingers together and gave the SAS veteran his most honest look.

      McCarter clucked his tongue and shook his head. “Chris, don’t give me that crap. Someone came in. They didn’t do any offloading. I’m thinking, they came from South America.”

      “David, you’re hurting my feelings. When have I ever been duplicitous with you?” Reasoner asked.

      McCarter rolled his eyes then leaned forward. He motioned with his finger for Reasoner to come closer. The man glanced toward the door. McCarter tilted his head, a warm friendly smile setting the dock man