Gathering Storm. Don Pendleton

picked up a scrap of sound. It was the sound of a floorboard creaking under weight. The weight was quickly removed but only made the board creak again. A man’s hushed voice expressed impatience and elicited a sharp response.

      At least two.

      But what were they doing outside his room?

      The Briton decided he wouldn’t have to wait long to find out. As he eased his Browning Hi-Power from the shoulder holster he was wearing, the door handle moved slightly as pressure was put on it from the other side. He flicked off the main room light, leaving on just a small lamp on a table beside the bed.

      The door swung open and two men stepped inside, scanning the room as they did. Both were armed with pistols. Seeing the room apparently empty seemed to confuse the pair for a few seconds and McCarter used the time to his advantage. He booted the door shut and as the gunners swung around he launched himself into action.

      The barrel of the Browning cracked down across the wrist of the closer man, the hard blow numbing his grip on the pistol he carried. As the man grunted in pain, McCarter rapped the Browning against the side of his skull, hard, stunning the guy. As the first man slumped to his knees, McCarter turned his upper body and drove his bunched left fist into the second man’s face. The blow was delivered with full force, cracking against the target’s jaw. His head snapped around, blood spraying from a split lip. The guy fell back against the wall. The Phoenix Force leader was already closing on him, his right knee coming up in a blur to drive into the guy’s exposed stomach. The breath gusted from his slack mouth and the man clutched himself. He offered no resistance as McCarter snatched his pistol from his hand. Stepping back, the Briton kicked the first guy’s gun across the room, then backed up himself to cover the two men.

      “I don’t suppose you bums are room service? No? Didn’t think so. So who are you?”

      “Someone you don’t want to mess around with.”

      McCarter glanced at the speaker. The accent wasn’t local. There was something familiar about it. European? Slavic maybe? Difficult to tell. The man had been mixing with other cultures and had lost a degree of his native cadence.

      “Might be a good idea if you stopped watching cheap movies,” McCarter said. “Coming up with a line like that. Bloody terrible. Now why don’t we stop being silly. Just tell me who you are and what you want.”

      “We want you out of Santa Lorca. We do business here. This is our territory.”

      McCarter grinned. “Losing out, are you? Tough. You blokes never heard of competition? Now I suggest you get the hell out of my room and stay away from me.”

      “You don’t understand.”

      “Oh, I understand. But take it from me, chum. If you keep this up I’ll kill you. No second chances. Keep that thought when you leave. Now get the fuck out of my room.”

      The two men glanced at each other. They were in a bind. No weapons, and it was plain to see that the man they had come to hassle was in no way disturbed by their presence. They gathered themselves and moved to the door. McCarter followed them into the passage and stayed until they had disappeared down the stairs. He went back into his room, closing and locking the door. He picked up the discarded weapons and placed them in his leather holdall. Then he got back on his cell phone and spoke to James again. He explained what had happened.

      “You think this could cause us problems?”

      “If we’ve stepped on the toes of the local union of gunrunners it could get busy. The sooner we have our meet with Regan’s buyer, the better. All we need is to identify the buyer, grab him if he fits the bill, then get the hell out of this sweatbox and go home.”

      “Our boys here only went back to the bar and spoke to Regan. Looks like he was just checking up on you. We’ll keep an eye on them.”

      “Okay.”

      McCarter put in a call to Manning and gave him an update.

      “Let’s hope they don’t decide to do something drastic like hit the ship,” McCarter said. “Losing a piece of action is making these guys a little tetchy.”

      “Let’s hope your meet goes smoothly,” Manning said.

      MCCARTER PULLED UP outside Regan’s warehouse, cutting the engine of the battered Jeep 4x4 he’d rented from a local contact. He checked out the dock area. It appeared deserted, but the Briton never took anything on face value. There were a hundred places where a man with a weapon could hide. Taking that thought to its logical conclusion, McCarter realized there could be a hundred armed men in hiding. It was a sobering thought. Enough to make him pull a pack of Player’s cigarettes from his pocket and fire one up. The smoke he took in eased his tension a little. McCarter exhaled and glanced quickly at his watch. Almost time.

      At the far end of the dock a car appeared, easing around the edge of the most distant warehouse. It moved forward slowly, headlights picking out McCarter’s parked Jeep. The Phoenix Force leader reached across to make sure his Browning was still beside him on the passenger seat.

      The advancing car came to a stop twenty feet away. Both front doors opened and Regan’s hardmen stepped out. They moved to the rear doors and opened them. McCarter saw Regan step out of one door. The man who emerged from the other side of the car was unknown to the Phoenix Force commander. Dressed in a dark suit and shirt, even down to a black tie, he stayed a few steps behind Regan, who led the way along the dock until he was no more than a couple of feet from the Jeep.

      “At least you’re on time, Bubba,’’ he said as McCarter stepped from his vehicle.

      “And I’ve brought your samples.”

      McCarter turned to the rear of the Jeep and lifted out a rolled tarp. He carried it to the front of the vehicle and laid the tarp on the hood. McCarter unrolled the bundle to expose two M-16 A-2 rifles, one fitted with an M-203 grenade launcher. There was also a Beretta 92-F and a LAW rocket launcher.

      Regan stepped forward to look over the weapons.

      “Go ahead,” McCarter said. “They won’t fall apart.”

      Regan picked up one of the M-16s and examined it thoroughly. He knew his weapons, expertly stripping the rifle and reassembling it with practiced ease. He did the same with the Beretta.

      “Good condition,” he said. “If I asked where you got them?”

      “You’d get the same answer I would if I asked who you banked with.”

      Regan chuckled. He turned to his rear seat passenger. “You want to check these out?”

      The man moved forward into a patch of light. He was lean, his complexion dark, a trimmed beard and mustache covering the lower half of his face. He wore steel-rimmed glasses. He barely glanced at McCarter as he reached out to pick up one of the Berettas, turning it over, working the slide. Once he had the weapon in his hands his attitude visibly changed. His stance relaxed, his gaze fixed on the pistol. The weapon worked like a drug, soothing him. He nodded slowly, his lips moving as he carried on some inner conversation with himself, slender fingers caressing the smooth, cool metal.

      McCarter felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise slightly. The man was a little creepy, he decided. The Briton glanced across at Regan, who returned his gaze and offered a brief shrug.

      The prospective buyer placed the Beretta back on the tarp. He gathered his thoughts and cleared his throat.

      “Excellent. I believe we can make our trade. You know what we require, Regan. The price as agreed. I will bring cash. U.S. dollars. Make your arrangements.” He offered McCarter the briefest of glances. “I will take delivery myself.”

      He turned then and made his way back to the car, leaving McCarter and Regan alone on the dock.

      “I thought he was going to make a bloody date with that Beretta,” McCarter said.

      “As long as his money is genuine, I don’t care if he takes the fuckin’ thing to bed with him, Bubba.”