Terror Descending. Don Pendleton

      “They do,” Price replied. “We made the missiles. Or rather they were U.S. Air Force issue. The rockets were British, the cluster bombs Russian and iron bombs from Italy.”

      “Mixed ordnance,” Lyon said, rubbing his jaw. “Sounds like these bastards were using whatever they could get.”

      “Or else that’s what they’re trying to make us think,” McCarter responded. “This might actually be China, or some new group trying keep hidden. Remember the Brigade, or Unity?”

      Clearly, everybody in the room did, and their faces grew more stern, if that were possible.

      “Okay, there is no way that we’re going to track them through the munitions,” Price stated. “Unless they’re idiots, they’ve been stockpiling for years.” Adding some sugar to her coffee, the woman stirred it slowly. “But we might be able to find them through the sales of the munitions.”

      “Through the weapons dealers who illegally sold them the bombs,” Lyons said. “Armando in Ohio would be the man to check with first. He’s the dirtiest arms dealer in the U.S. We can put the squeeze on him. Maybe he’s heard something. These guys have a network. We can go in as buyers…no, as sellers, and see what we can dig up.”

      “The best way to follow the money—” Brognola added sagely “—is to be the original source.”

      “Damn straight.”

      “Want some blacksuits for backup?” Price asked.

      “Yes, a dozen should do,” Lyons said. “And Bob.”

      He wanted Bob? Crossing her arms, the woman almost smiled in understanding. “Fair enough,” Price said out loud. “Good luck. Report when possible.”

      Rising, the big man nodded to the rest of the Stony Man warriors.

      “We’re still using Bloody Bob?” Kissinger asked incredulously.

      Price shrugged. “He’s never failed us before.”

      Taking the remote control, Brognola brought up the fuzzy picture of the B-52 bomber. “This is an old plane, been around for over sixty years,” Brognola said slowly, testing the words as if they were creaking wooden boards under his feet. “How many of them are still in service around the world?”

      “Couple of thousand,” Kissinger said calmly.

      Kurtzman scowled. “That many?”

      “Unfortunately, yes.” The armorer shrugged. “The damn things fly forever, if you have enough spare parts.”

      “Buy enough parts from enough different sources and you could probably build a B-52,” Brognola said with conviction, sensing a possible vulnerability in the enemy.

      Suddenly alert, Price almost smiled. “And exactly where do you buy replacement parts for a B-52 heavy bomber?”

      Thoughtfully, Kissinger chewed a lip. “Well, there is a place called the Boneyard out in Arizona. That’s where the Air Force stores their old, and new, B-52 bombers, along with a lot of their other off-line or obsolete war planes.”

      “Sounds like the Boneyard is a good place to start a search…No, forget that,” Price corrected herself. “It’s much too obvious a source. That would be the last place the terrorists would get any parts.”

      “If we’re talking about black market war planes, that would be either Miami, the Sudan or Mexico,” McCarter announced. “And Homeland Security has the Miami group so heavily infiltrated that those boys can’t sell a wing nut, much less an entire war plane, without Washington knowing about it. There is a huge market for airplane parts, especially for military planes, and even more so for jets of any kind. The money involved is so good that a lot of drug dealers have switched from heroin to smuggling airplane parts.”

      “And the CIA has done the same with Sudan,” Brognola added. “Which leaves Mexico.”

      “The Quintana Roo connection?” Price suggested.

      “The very place I was thinking about,” McCarter said. “Out in the Yucatán Peninsula, there was an airfield built secretly during the reign of Mario Madrid, the so-called king of Cancun.”

      “He was a narcoterrorist, right?”

      “One of the first. The son of a bitch killed hundreds of Interpol agents, CIA operatives, police, Mexican federales . It’s said that he shifted more cocaine and heroin than we will ever know. The Mexican police finally took him down.” Price smiled. “With a little help from us and Mack.”

      “To keep an airfield hidden, it would have to be located somewhere out in the desert,” Brognola said. “Maybe Mack would know where, but he’s busy in Tennessee right now.”

      “No sweat,” Kurtzman stated with conviction. “I’ll personally run a search through the CIA and NSA spy satellites. I’ll find the airfield for you, David, long before Phoenix Force lands in the capital city of Chetumal.”

      Standing, McCarter pointed a finger at the chief hacker and shot him by dropping a thumb. Kurtzman deflected the imaginary round with a palm, and both men grinned.

       CHAPTER TWO

       Columbus, Ohio

      Walking along the deserted streets, Armando Delacort kept an easy pace, his five bodyguards maintaining a tight formation around the millionaire arms dealer. Their suits bulged from the Uzi machine pistols slung under their jackets, and their heads were shaved in a military buzzcut, giving the men an oddly similar appearance. None of them wore jewelry, and all of them had multiple scars on their hands and faces telling of many battles fought hard and won. After the unexpected retirement the previous year of his Manhattan business rival, business had been booming.

      Dressed in white linen as if this was the tropics, Delacort showed no sign of his inner demons, and coolly radiated the sort of easy affluence that only the truly rich and powerful could master. However, childhood habits died hard, and there was a switchblade knife tucked into his hip pocket, a pair of brass knuckles in his vest and a brand-new, state-of-the-art Glock 18 tucked into a tailored shoulder holster.

      The weapon was a marvel, justifying the boastful claim that Glock was the premier weapons designer in the world. In appearance, it was absolutely identical to the Glock 17, a simple semiautomatic pistol. But just a touch on the trigger of the Eighteen, and it chattered off seventeen 9 mm rounds in slightly under two seconds. Two seconds! Absolutely incredible. Privately, the arms dealer was eagerly looking forward to the first reasonable excuse to use the new weapon, to see how well it did in combat.

      Smiling contentedly at the sun, Delacort ambled along, savoring the clean morning air. As always, the city streets were mostly empty at this ungodly hour of the day, the sun just cresting over the top of the Hyatt Sports Stadium clearly announcing that it was barely 10:00 a.m. All of the commuters were at work, the mob of students attending the four local colleges were in class, and any shoppers were at the upscale shops located far uptown.

      Whistling a tune, Delacort sauntered along the sidewalk, taking his time and almost feeling sorry for the hordes of people who had to eke out a living in the daily grind. Few people understood that life was like a fine wine—it should be savored and enjoyed, not gulped like water or guzzled like soda pop!

      “Baa…baa…” Delacort said, imitating a sheep at a passing couple on the other side of the street. The man and woman gave no sign that they had heard, but they did hurry around the corner and out of sight.

      Chuckling softly to himself, Delacort paused for only a second to check the oncoming traffic, of which there was none, before crossing Main Street even though the traffic light was red.

      Straight ahead, on the corner of High and Main streets, the international arms dealer smiled at the sight of the Anchor Café, the green-and-white-striped awning fluttering in the gentle breeze above a score of wrought-iron tables and chairs, which were surprisingly comfortable. Taking