Exit Strategy. Don Pendleton

Force operator and was not surprised by an act of cross-border violence being held in secret to avert the possibility of war between two nations. Too often, Phoenix’s five had been sent in to defang and defuse conflicts instigated by outside parties looking to profit from war and chaos. “Given that Joaquin and Amanda Castillo are considered enemies of the state in Mexico, the legitimacy of this strike force could be fairly solid.”

      “You know about these two?” Hawkins asked. The youngest and newest member of Phoenix, T. J. Hawkins, was the other American who’d diluted the original mission description of Mack Bolan’s foreign legion.

      Hawkins, who had grown up on the South Side of Chicago, was a veteran of the US Army Rangers and Delta Force. He had a history of going outside the rules to protect innocent lives to do what was right, politics be damned. He was a prime candidate to fill in the ranks after McCarter replaced their retired original commander.

      “The last time we were in Mexico, I managed to catch a newscast about Accion Obrar. The similarities to Stony Man made me curious enough to delve further,” Manning noted.

      Hawkins frowned. “Being a Texas boy, I looked into Accion Obrar because they were allegedly behind unseating paramilitary gangs operating on both sides of the border. Just in case we had to deal with Los Sigmas or Los Omegas or some group like that.”

      “The new hotness is Los Lictors.” Hermann Schwarz spoke up. Schwarz was Blancanales’s longtime friend and a fellow survivor of Bolan’s death squad. Balancing electrical engineering and Ranger training made Schwarz, nicknamed “Gadgets,” one of the top ten fighting elite in the country alongside his fellow Able Team warriors. “For those of us on Able Team who aren’t fluent in Spanish, that’s ‘the officers’ or ‘the magistrates.’”

      Lyons met Schwarz’s gaze at his friend’s usual razzing. “How illuminating.”

      “He’s up to five-syllable words, Gadgets! Cheese it!” Blancanales stage-whispered across the table. The humor, so close in the wake of the loss of several blacksuits, was meant to distract from the pain. These men were law enforcement professionals and gallows humor was a means to keep laughing instead of crying. For that, Lyons was glad for his friends’ antics, though it didn’t ameliorate the anger he felt for the murderers of the blacksuit marshals.

      “This is particularly disturbing in that we have little idea who could have betrayed the location of the Castillos,” Huntington Wethers, the third member of the Farm’s cyber crew, noted. A tall African American who looked born to be a college professor, complete with corduroy jacket and pipe, Wethers was a mathematical genius and a man who was meticulous in seeking out information on the web. This didn’t mean that he was slow; indeed, he was able to process raw data in bulk, but he was thorough. “The setup arranged by Hal, utilizing ‘in-house’ resources, was kept away from agency heads specifically.”

      “The potential for a mole to intercept was minimized, but there’s never a sure thing where more than one person is involved,” Brognola grumbled. “So, we have a list of who could have let slip about their security.”

      “A list we’re going through with a fine-tooth comb,” Akira Tokaido said. No irony was lost that the young Japanese American’s spiky punk hairstyle only saw a comb to further splay and launch it toward the ceiling. Where Wethers was meticulous, Tokaido was punk rock and thrash metal, making wild leaps of deductive logic, though his mathematical and coding capabilities were not haphazard.

      Where speed and intuition were required, Tokaido was an F-22 Raptor pulling 9 Gs to outmaneuver his opponents. Wethers was more the aircraft carrier sailing along at 35 knots but with eyes and ears everywhere. Delahunt was the bridge between the two, using her own investigative instincts to seek handholds of information to scale impregnable fortresses of mystery.

      “I pity your quarry, mates,” McCarter quipped.

      “Eventually they become yours,” Delahunt said. “And when they do, that’s when things get...satisfying.”

      Gary Manning raised an eyebrow at Delahunt’s breathless final word. The red-haired ex-cop was a beautiful woman, regardless of age, and even her toughness never marginalized her feminine allure.

      Manning turned toward the big Fed, hoping to keep his mind clear. “You don’t think that it’s a direct link to the government, do you, Hal?”

      “No,” Brognola returned. “The crew has been digging deep and hard, looking for threads that might have exposed the blacksuit witness security detail, and those assignments are showing up in the system. It’s not an actual mole inside WITSEC, either.”

      “More like a worm in the computer systems,” Tokaido acknowledged. “I’m picking up the damage left behind and Hunt and I are trying to locate and end it.”

      “As well as to perform some forensic work on the worm so we can learn where it came from,” Wethers added. “Its elusive nature confirms that a genius put it together, or even a team of geniuses.”

      “Say, the best hackers a Mexican covert agency could put together?” Lyons asked.

      Wethers nodded in affirmation.

      “Accion Obrar is a fairly blunt name for a so-called top secret government op,” McCarter said.

      Lyons tilted his head. “It seems more like a terrorist group. In fact, I think some French commies could sue for stealing the title ‘Action Directe.’”

      “It’d make targeting them easier,” McCarter mused.

      Lyons smirked. He turned back to Brognola. “We’ll be babysitting the kids? Because you know that they’ll still be a target.”

      “That, and I know you want a crack at the thugs who killed so many of our blacksuits,” Brognola confirmed. “Weapons free. No rules. No referee.”

      “Using the kids as bait is going to be tough.” Blancanales spoke up. “But, sadly, this wouldn’t be the first time we’ve had to do it.”

      “And we haven’t lost one of our protectees yet,” Schwarz interjected. “We won’t let them down.”

      “You said the father was killed and the mother is missing,” McCarter said. “She might be on her way back to Mexico?”

      Brognola indicated the Briton was right with a nod. “The most likely place they’ll put her is El Calabozo sin Piedad. So, right now, our priority is for Phoenix to head to Mexico to get her out of there.”

      Rafael Encizo grumbled, drawing McCarter’s attention. “I’ve heard rumors about that place. It’s on a scale of the Cuban prison I was kept in as a teenager.”

      In his youth, Encizo, the last of the original founders of Phoenix Force, had fought against the Communist dictatorship in his native Cuba. Only by breaking his jailer’s neck and stealing a boat did he escape to the United States. One of the few members of Stony Man’s action teams not a military veteran, Encizo’s lifetime of work as a salvage diver and as a special consultant for the US Drug Enforcement Administration in Florida had forged him into a highly capable combatant. Officially the oldest of Phoenix Force, he was a swarthy and incredibly strong man for his diminutive height of five-eight. Not the most muscular member of Phoenix—that was Manning—his strength was still considerable, as were his skills with knives. “The worst part is that this is a prison in a friendly nation to ours.”

      “Cuba’s on the friendly list now, after all this time,” James offered. He was Encizo’s closest friend on the team, the two spending long stretches of off time scuba diving as well as practicing sparring with their chosen knives. “But, yeah, Mexico is supposed to be a democracy.”

      “If Mexico were working so well as a democracy,” Hawkins interrupted, “people wouldn’t be flooding across the border illegally to escape poverty, corrupt governments and the cartel wars.”

      The Texan didn’t often offer his opinion on a crisis unless he felt strongly about it. Raised in a border state, Hawkins had a lifetime’s worth of