Stolen Arrows. Don Pendleton

Eagle,” Zalhares said, starting along the footpath. “We will engage. Want anybody alive for questioning, sir?”

      There was a buzz of static in the earphone for a moment, masking the reply. “Hello, Eagle? Repeat, please, 10-2.”

      “Falcon, I said not this time,” Osbourne said tersely. “Our psych department says that it will scare the hell out of the others in their group to have a team simply vanish off the face of the earth. No bodies, no news coverage, just gone. It makes the next batch of killers move a little slower, and thus easier to stop. Terminate with extreme prejudice.”

      The word is “kill,” Zalhares thought snidely to himself. How can the CIA order something done if they’re too cowardly to even speak the word? Americans were rich, but foolishly sentimental. A combination he found to be highly conducive for business.

      “Confirmed,” he said out loud. “Falcon out.”

      The rest of the Scion dispersed into the greenery as Zalhares turned toward the street. Reaching the corner, he saw a double-decker bus pull to a halt at the curb with a hiss of air brakes, the oversize vehicle gently rocking for a few seconds as the shocks rode out the inertia.

      A short, fat man with metal glasses and tightly carrying a plain leather briefcase stepped quickly from the bus. As he started toward the park, several men rose from parked cars and headed after the plump courier. They were dressed in ridiculously loud sports coats with noticeable lumps under their arms from holstered weapons. Zalhares tried not to frown at the sight of the rank amateurs. These Libyan fools were a threat to America?

      Hurrying down a footpath, the fat man darted into a break in the bushes and disappeared from sight. Only seconds behind, his pursuers quickly followed.

      “Now,” Zalhares said, entering the bushes from another direction.

      “Confirm,” Mariano replied.

      Moving with silent grace, Zalhares slipped through the manicured hedges and entered a small clearing in the heart of the park. There he saw the four Libyans converge on the fat man, each of them carrying a stun gun or pepper spray. As they tried to cut off his escape, the courier simply dived to the ground, hugging the briefcase.

      Zalhares and his people charged the circle of Libyans from behind. At the sound of their footsteps, the men turned from the cringing courier and the members of the Scion moved like lightning, each choosing a target and ramming a knife upward into the bottom of the jaw to pin the mouth shut.

      As the startled Libyans began to choke on the blood filling their throats, they dropped the stun guns and spray cans and tried to pull real weapons, but it was too late.

      Zalhares grabbed an arm of the biggest man and broke it with a twisting gesture, making him drop the 9 mm Glock pistol. Mariano did the same. Pedrosa crushed another man’s neck in his bare grip, the bones audibly cracking. Mizne stabbed her target with another knife, leaving the blade buried deep in his chest to stem any possible gush of blood from the ruptured heart.

      Only yards away from cheerful families having a picnic on the village green, the Libyan terrorists died, drowning in their own blood, not so much as a whisper escaping their lips. Rising from the ground, the fat courier nodded at the members of Scion in frank appreciation, then calmly walked away and out of sight. The moment he was gone, the mercs shifted the bodies behind some bushes instead of lugging them to the open sewer grating deeper in the parkland as they had the other corpses. Then they pulled their weapons and carefully checked the sleek sound suppressors attached to their Brazilian-made Imbel .22 pistols. The mercs clicked off the safeties and racked the slides to chamber a round for immediate use.

      “Eagle, this is Falcon,” Zalhares said, touching his throat mike. “All clear.”

      “Confirm, Falcon. Another good job,” Osbourne said. “And so ends the British cell of the Libyan National Front. Hell of a day, people. Forty-five terrorists killed and no breakage. Not an agent lost.”

      “Well, sir, a live Zodiac is a hell of a bait,” another CIA agent added on the encrypted channel, a trace of a Southern accent in his voice. “Too good for those sons of bitches to pass up.”

      “Damn straight it is,” Osbourne chuckled. “Good job, Falcon. You handle the bodies, and we’ll cover the Zodiac to the truck. We’ll meet you back at the Savoy Hotel for a debriefing.”

      Holstering his piece, Cirello Zalhares looked at his people and they nodded.

      “Confirm, Eagle,” he replied, giving a rare smile. “See you real soon.”

      But as the mercs began to leave, the bushes rustled near the stacked corpses and a London constable pushed his way into the clearing.

      “What’s going on here?” he demanded firmly.

      Without pause, the Scion pulled their guns and fired, the silenced weapons whispering death. Grunting at each impact, the patrolman folded over and tumbled to the grass, bleeding from a dozen small wounds.

      “Sorry, I was once a police officer myself,” Mariano said, advancing close to press his weapon directly to the temple of the dying man. “But business is business.”

      Struggling to breathe, the unarmed constable clawed for the radio microphone hanging over his shoulder. Mariano fired the pistol. Jerking backward, the patrolman trembled for a moment, then lay still.

      “Quickly! Get him into the bushes,” Mizne directed, removing the partially used clip from the Imbel .22 and quickly inserting a fresh one. “We must not deviate from the plan!”

      “Wait,” Zalhares said slowly, glancing at the park beyond the thick hedges. “Maybe we can use this dead man to our advantage.”

      AS THE PLUMP COURIER reached the footbridge near the bank of the Thames, six other men moved smoothly from the surrounding crowd to form a protective ring. Standing shoulder to shoulder, the CIA agents kept everybody away from the man and his battered old briefcase.

      From on the footbridge, Osbourne keenly watched the milling civilians for any suspicious movements. But nobody seemed to be following the group or paying them any undue attention. Good. Everything seemed to be under control. Although Osbourne grudgingly admitted a faint unease at his inability to locate the constable who patrolled the riverbank. But since neither Scotland Yard nor the local bulls were privy to the covert actions here today, the fellow could just be having lunch, or was otherwise occupied.

      Reaching into a pocket, Osbourne switched channels on his radio. “Nest, this is Eagle, all clear, we’re on the way with the egg.”

      “We’re ready, Eagle,” a woman replied. “Hawks are live and ready for anything.”

      “Good. Stay alert, see you in five.”

      “Roger that, Eagle. Nest, out.”

      Passing a fish-and-chips vendor, one of the CIA agents scowled as an elderly woman liberally doused her chips with vinegar and salt.

      “What the hell is a ‘toad in the hole’?” he muttered. “Sounds like something you get from a Hong Kong hooker for fifty bucks.”

      “God, I want a hamburger so bad my dick hurts,” another man answered curtly.

      One of the other agents snorted a laugh. Everybody was starting to relax. This was the last Zodiac, they were in the clear now and it was smooth sailing. The project was completed and a total success.

      “So after this, we’ll hit the McDonald’s in Piccadilly Square,” the first agent said, scratching his chest to keep a hand near his gun. “Burgers and fries sounds good to me.”

      “Amen, brother.”

      “Please, I have not eaten American food in thirty years,” the courier said, shifting his grip on the briefcase. “I would kill for a hot dog right about now.”

      “Then lunch is on the Agency. You guys did a hell of a job and deserve a bucket of medals. The least we can do is buy lunch.”