STONY MAN

The elite, covert agents of Stony Man Farm, comprising the best cyber techs and military in the world, act under orders of the President. Whether it’s stopping a terror attack overseas or saving civilians closer to home, the teams fight for freedom and peace.

DEADLY SCIENCE

A cutting-edge electromagnetic pulse weapon sets off a bidding war, and brokers from countries all over the world can’t wait to get their hands on it. But when the Libyan rebel behind the auction squeezes out the U.S., red flags are raised in Washington. Determined to keep the weapon of mass destruction away from hostile powers, Stony Man Farm has two choices: steal it from the rebel’s headquarters in Greece—or destroy it. While Phoenix Force deploys overseas, Able Team has its own mission. An American paramilitary contractor also wants the EMP device…and he’s willing to kill anyone who gets in his way.

“WATCH OUT!”

Mishka had missed the dark sedan that rolled alongside the driver’s side of her coupe.

McCarter reached beneath his coat and quick-drew a Browning Hi-Power. He aimed at the small window behind Mishka’s seat as the sedan swerved toward the coupe and tried to force her to crash into the cars parked along the road.

“Sorry ’bout the window, love!” he shouted before squeezing the trigger twice.

The first bullet shattered the coupe’s window and the second took out the passenger-side window on the sedan. The outline of a man’s face was all McCarter could make out in the dark, but he didn’t have trouble discerning the whites of his eyes. McCarter fired a third shot and the mask disappeared in a crimson spray. The sedan swerved as the driver whipped the wheel hard left and put the vehicle into a one-eighty.

McCarter grabbed a small walkie-talkie from his belt. “Gray One to team. You got that?”

“Saw it all, Gray One,” Encizo replied immediately. “Should we pursue?”

“Hell, yes,” McCarter muttered.

Domination Bid

Don Pendleton

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

Minsk, Belarus

Night settled on the city as a blanket of fog rolled across the Svislach River and obscured the lights of Upper Town. Atlantic currents made the air feel dense as heavy humidity was normal to the city this time of year. However the rare lack of wind made the air stifling and Oleg Dratshev, used to the clear and crisp bite of northern Russia, found it a chore even to breathe.

Within a stone’s throw, Dratshev noted the smooth and precise movements of his shadowy escorts: four FSB agents assigned to monitor his every move. The Soviet secret service agents were constant companions with orders to protect him. Failing that, they were to ensure no one else could ever exploit his unique skills.

Dratshev had initially resisted the idea of coming to Minsk when he’d received orders direct from his Moscow masters—not for fear of his personal safety but simply because he preferred a more rural setting. Minsk epitomized the fast pace of Euro nightlife, a life simply not for him, but Dratshev knew such orders weren’t a suggestion. He watched the fog for a little longer before fishing a pewter and silver cigarette case from the pocket of his custom-tailored slacks. He lit his last cigarette and then leaned against the metal bench and considered his future.

Electromagnetic pulse weapons were his specialty and the reason for his transfer to Minsk. Representatives from the FSB’s special operations section were to take charge of Dratshev’s brainchild for practical testing in the unforgiving mountainous terrain of northern Belarus. To this point, the tests had been solely based on computer models. Now the time had come to demonstrate the capabilities of the EMP small-arms applications, code-named ZEMKOV, and prove once and for all the theories that had constituted the past fifteen years of Dratshev’s life.

As would any scientist in his position, Dratshev wondered of the far-reaching implications for the world. The science behind his invention was hardly new, but the practical applications scared him beyond his wildest imaginings.

He wanted to see it work, to see those things that had only existed in the neurons of his brain come to life. He did not relish the actual physical results.

Dratshev wondered if he was experiencing similar emotions to those of his predecessors—perhaps the creators of the atom and hydrogen bombs or space-based missile-defense systems. Only time and the writers of history would tell. It was difficult to imagine that, at barely thirty-five, he might well be judged by revisionists as a monster—a purveyor of death by simple virtue of his ability to conjure a weapon with enormous destructive capabilities.

The whisper-quiet pop, like that of a balloon, intruded on his deeper thoughts. He turned to his right in time to see one of the shadowy forms drop to the damp grass like a stone.

Dratshev felt the panic rise in the form of increased heart rate and a cold lump in his throat. The sound repeated, this time more like twig snapping, and Dratshev saw a second FSB agent fall.

Dratshev ripped the cigarette from his mouth and jumped to his feet. He looked for the other two agents who had been walking a perimeter to his left a minute earlier, but they were no longer visible. Dratshev whirled and ran up the hill at the back side of the bench along the river. He had difficulty finding purchase on the grass, damp from a hard and recent thundershower. His lungs burned with the exertion. He’d never been a physical man and the several bouts of pneumonia he’d battled as a child in the climates of Siberia and other similarly brutal environments made such activity more difficult.

Dratshev heard something behind him and turned long enough to catch a man he recognized as one of his escorts closing the distance. Dratshev slowed some, the sight of Kurig flooding him with hope. Kurig waved at him, shouting for Dratshev to keep running and as he got closer Dratshev spotted the pistol in Kurig’s other hand. A new burden of dread gripped Dratshev’s chest—it felt as if it might squeeze the life from him.

Finally, mercifully, Dratshev reached high and level ground. Directly ahead he spotted the road and the sparse traffic darting along the paved trail that wound through a commercial section of Minsk. Some of the businesses lining the far side of the street were closed, but a few were clubs and bistros open late. Dratshev knew the protocol for this instance, a protocol in which he’d drilled hundreds of times. If separated from his FSB bodyguards and under extreme emergencies, he was to find the most public venue he could and place a call to the special number he’d committed to memory. Someone would always answer that number, his handler and contact had assured him. Always.

Dratshev turned once more to see if Kurig had made progress, most assured he’d find the bodyguard now on his heels. Instead he caught just a glimpse of Kurig as the FSB agent fell. Dratshev saw the muzzle-flashes from Kurig’s pistol a moment later, heard the reports from the weapon as it echoed in the thick air.

Then the shooting stopped and Dratshev heard no more, saw no more movement from Kurig. It could’ve been the distance obscured by the mist but Dratshev knew better. Kurig was dead.

And Oleg Dratshev was now utterly and undeniably on his own.

* * *

MUSIC OF ORIGINS somewhere between punk and electronic dance blared from the speakers inside the club. The bass thumped irregularly in unsynchronized contrast to the regular thudding of Dratshev’s heart. A crowd of partying youths squeezed against him at every turn, making it impossible to discern friend from foe from neutral party. Dratshev willed his mind to remain focused. Logical, coherent thought had been a mainstay of his success for years and there was no reason to think it wouldn’t serve him now.

That’s why his government had protocols for this kind of thing. Not to mention that whoever had taken out the FSB detachment assigned to protect him wouldn’t attempt to kill him where so many witnesses could identify them. Even if his enemies weren’t afraid of the local police, they had very good reason to stay out of the sights of the FSB. That particular organization had a reputation of not only protecting its own but of becoming quite nasty when attacked without provocation.

Dratshev continued to take in his surroundings as he pushed his way through the throng of young men and women dancing, shouting and drinking.

One Emo chick—long dark hair framing a bony face doused heavily with makeup and black eye shadow and lipstick—offered Dratshev a smile as he passed. He returned the smile but pushed through. No time for socializing.

Dratshev liked his women, to be sure, but anyone could pose as much of a threat or hindrance as a good cover. Dratshev couldn’t afford the distractions right now, anyway. Best to keep his mind on business.

When Dratshev finally reached the back of the club, he searched for lighted signs against the wall pointing to the washroom. In places such as this, such hallways leading to them would also have pay telephones and that’s what he needed most right now.

He considered the cell phone in his pocket but wouldn’t risk turning it on until after he made his call. They would need the GPS signal from the phone to locate him, a signal that could be used by his enemies as much as his allies. Sure enough, when Dratshev found the hallway leading to the restrooms he found a bank of payphones.

Dratshev reached into his trouser pocket and withdrew a handful of coins. He dropped enough in to buy him initial credit to get an international operator to dial the special number.

Fortunately a door separated the hallway from the main club, so at least he could make out the female voice on the other end of the line.

“Yes, go ahead with your traffic.”

Dratshev gave his code name and ten-digit ID number. He answered the challenge question with the correct pass phrase and then waited while the woman routed him to his handler.

After a number of agonizing minutes elapsed the familiar voice of his handler came on the line. “What is it?”

“I’ve been compromised.”

“Where’s your security team?”

“They were neutralized.”

The handler swore. “This isn’t good.”

“I believe under the present circumstances that would probably be an understatement. Can you send me help?”

“Nearest team is at least an hour away. Where are you? Is your phone on?”

“No, I didn’t dare turn it on until I could verify contact with you.”

The handler hesitated in his reply. Dratshev found this odd. The handler finally said, “Of course…per protocol.”

“Yes, per protocol.”

“Okay, turn it on now. I will verify your position and then activate the closest unit. You are to stay exactly where you are until they contact you. Pass phrase will have changed by then, however. Please remember this so they do not kill you on sight.”

Dratshev frowned at this revelation on first hearing it, but then remembered the time difference. Per SOP, the FSB preferred to utilize UTC for all date-time references. By referencing Coordinated Universal Time, challenges and passwords remained consistent irrespective of geographical location anywhere in the world. Providing an incorrect pass phrase or challenge would most likely result in either termination of communications or, in the case of FSB assets, simply termination since it would be assumed an asset was either operating under duress or compromised beyond recovery.

As Dratshev reached inside his jacket to activate his mobile phone he replied, “Understood. I will hold hear and await extraction.”

Dratshev hung up, turned and proceeded into the restroom. He considered his options while he relieved himself. He could simply occupy one of the stalls and wait but that would leave him without any means of escape if the enemy found him first. Conversely, waiting out in the main part of the club would make him more conspicuous to any party that entered and might search for him in the crowd.

Either choice presented risks but the latter one made more sense. At least he could move around and use the crowd for cover if he spotted trouble before it spotted him.

Dratshev washed his hands and returned to the club proper. He shuffled along the edge of the crowd until he could find a free space at the bar. It took the service staff nearly two minutes to notice him. The bartender took his order for vodka, neat—Dratshev decided to limit it to one so as not to dull his senses. While he waited for his drink, Dratshev kept searching for threats. So far, it didn’t appear anyone posed a threat. When the bartender returned with his drink, he paid up including tip but sipped from the tumbler rather than hitting it all at once.

“Hello!” a voice called in his ear, the speaker’s lips so close her breath tickled his earlobe.

Dratshev turned with surprise to see the Emo chick from earlier. He tried for his best smile. “Hello.”

“I watched you walk past me,” she said, again leaning close so he could hear.

He reciprocated in like fashion and they continued that way throughout the conversation. “And?”

She shrugged. “You looked like maybe you wanted to say something.”

“Perhaps.”

“Just perhaps?” She grinned and winked. “You mean you’re not sure you wanted to say something to me?”

“Oh, I wanted to say something but I wasn’t sure how you’d take it. At least not coming from an old man like me.”

She laughed. “You’re not old!”

“Sometimes I feel old.”

“Well, maybe I could make you feel younger.”

“I bet you could at that.”

“So now who’s being inappropriate?” She tapped just above her very ample cleavage.

“Some would just say you’re honest.”

She nodded vigorously and then extended her hand. “I’m Mishka.”

He nodded and shook her hand lightly. “Oleg.”

“You’re not from Minsk?”

“You got me. I’m on vacation.”

“Where are you from originally?”

Dratshev thought about lying at first but remembered his training. The closer to the truth the easier to remember details if a discrepancy rose. Half-truths with leanings toward reality were the best.

Dratshev replied, “Moscow. Well, just north of there actually.”

“That’s crazy! I was actually born in Krakow.”

“Is that right?”

Mishka nodded; a freshly wild look in her eyes. “It is so nice to meet another Russian.”

“You don’t meet a lot of Russians here in Minsk?”

“Not really. I mean…at least none that stay around very long.”

“But actually, I’m on vacation. So I won’t be staying that long, either.”

“You’ll probably stay longer than you think.”

Dratshev couldn’t be sure what she meant at first but then he noticed just the slightest shift in Mishka’s gaze. He knew the telltale signs and he turned his attention toward the dance area in time to see several men approach from various directions.

He’d been betrayed! There could be no other explanation. Oleg turned from the men and tried to leave but he found Mishka blocking his path. He went to shove her aside but something stung his side. It felt as if a needle had been shoved into the space between his third and fourth ribs.

Dratshev’s mind began to swim and then he felt woozy and it became suddenly difficult to breathe. He heard Mishka scream and begin to shout in a dialect he didn’t recognize, but then it didn’t much matter because the periphery of his vision turned spotty. Stars danced in front of his eyes and his lungs burned not with the scar tissue of his past but more like that sort of respiratory attack brought on by suppressive chemicals.

With his head becoming foggy, his vision spotted and his capacity to oxygenate inhibited, Oleg Dratshev knew that to continue fighting and resisting would become futile. At long last he succumbed to the sweet rapture of what he assumed would be death and blacked out just a heartbeat after he felt his knees become wobbly. Then he hit the thinly carpeted floor of the club.

CHAPTER TWO

Oleg Dratshev woke to a dull ache in his head and a thick, dry tongue. When he ran his tongue inside his mouth he came away with a pasty feeling similar to what he might have experienced after a night of drinking. At first he thought maybe he’d been blindfolded but that quickly gave way to the sensation of dark, ominous shapes surrounding him.

Around him he perceived the steady, rolling drone of what could only be the vibrations caused by plane engines. Slowly his surroundings took shape and he realized he’d been secured to a reclining chair. His arms felt heavy and he reached to rub his eyes but the motions were stopped short. He felt his wrists and realized they were encircled by thick leather restraints. The subsequent jingling were those of chains attached to the restraints.

Low-watt, recessed lights above him came on and bathed his prison in a warm, red-orange glow. A door in the far wall of the compartment opened and two men entered. The first man was tall with a thick neck and muscular build. The man who followed stood much shorter. He was dressed with impeccable taste in tan slacks and a tailored silk shirt. Under the light, Dratshev found it difficult to determine the color but it looked perhaps aqua or azure in hue. He had black hair, dark skin and a neatly trimmed black beard with mustache.

The man sat in a chair directly across from Dratshev’s. The expensive leather creaked under his weight. The bigger man stood behind him with his arms folded.

“Good morning, Dr. Dratshev,” the seated man said in near flawless Russian. “I trust you enjoyed your nap.”

“Who are you?” Dratshev asked, his voice sounding muffled in his own ears.

“We’ll get to that in a moment,” the man replied with a pleasant smile. “Would you like something to drink? Water perhaps?”

Dratshev thought about a moment and then nodded. The man gestured to his companion, who immediately turned and left the compartment.

The man said, “The drug we used will leave you severely dehydrated. I’d suggest when my assistant returns that you sip the water rather than gulp it, as you might be tempted. I would not want to see you vomit, as this would only dehydrate you more.”

“You haven’t answered my question,” Dratshev said with a new sense of defiance.

“Fair enough. My name is Ishaq Madari. This will probably not mean anything to you.”

It didn’t and Dratshev saw no reason to pretend otherwise.

Madari continued. “I regret that I had to take such extreme measures to make your acquaintance but I can say with assurance that I have so long wished to meet you.”

“You may not feel the same way when my people discover that you have kidnapped me.”

“Perhaps,” Madari replied, inclining his head. He looked around the compartment a moment, appearing to gather his thoughts. “Once we’ve landed safely I will certainly make every effort to provide more comfortable accommodations. For the moment, however, I’m afraid this is the best I can do.”

The big man returned with bottled water. He opened the cap and handed it to Dratshev, who took it and tipped it high to his lips.

“Easy, Dr. Dratshev, please. As I said, too much too soon will make you ill.”

Dratshev remembered and resisted the urge to take more than a couple of swallows. When he’d finished drinking he asked, “Why you have done this? Do you realize who I am?”

“I do!” Madari clapped his hands like an excited child and then steepled his fingers and touched them to his chin. His dark brown eyes gazed on Dratshev with intense curiosity. “I would surmise there’s very little I don’t know about you, in fact. Your work in the field of electromagnetic pulse weapons is practically legendary in some circles. Oh, please, Dr. Dratshev, there’s no reason to look so surprised. The FSB lacks proper security precautions. Information can be had for the right amount of money, and money is a resource of which I have no short supply.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Madari smiled and shook his head as if Dratshev had told a crude joke. “I’d hoped you’d have enough sense not to play such games with me. I’m aware of your fierce loyalty toward your government. I understand loyalty more than you could ever know. I used to have the same toward my own government.”

“And what government is that?”

Dratshev could see his ploy to glean as much information from his captor as possible wasn’t lost on Madari. It was a standard tactic his FSB instructors had taught him early in his career. As a military scientist, kidnapping was an all too real and constant threat. This wasn’t lost on those within the Russian government and they insisted on putting Dratshev through regular training so he would know how to handle most scenarios.

“I was born and raised in Libya, and a prominent member of its government. But that time has long passed. Like you, I was loyal to them and they betrayed that loyalty because of certain political views I had. Had I been a wiser man, I would’ve kept those views to myself but I believed in them so much that they ultimately became my undoing. So now I am an exile.”

“A very touching story,” Dratshev said as he took another sip. “However, it doesn’t change the fact that you have illegally seized a Russian citizen. My government will not sit still for this.”

“Please, Dr. Dratshev, let’s not squabble. You are my honored guest. And when I’ve obtained from you what I need you will be released back to your government unharmed.”

“Ha! You’ve killed my security team, drugged and kidnapped me. Those are hardly the actions of a gentleman.”

“They were extreme measures, agreed, but wholly necessary.”

“Just what is it you want from me?”

“Ah, now that’s the part I think will intrigue you most. I know you were transferred to Belarus to begin practical testing of your EMP theories and designs. I fully intend to give you that opportunity. Imagine that you will be able to expand your work beyond your wildest imagination.”

“That would be very difficult to imagine.”

“But true, nonetheless.” Madari sighed. “It may come as a surprise to you, but your government has been less than honest with you in the advancements they’ve made on your prototype designs.”

“Dishonest in what way?”

“In just how far they’ve gotten in the manufacture. They’ve been purposefully slow implementing your designs, fearful what would happen if they moved up the timetable, I would guess.”

“And how could you know this? Even if it’s true, it wouldn’t make any sense. Stalling progress of my research is hardly in their best interests.”

“Not when it comes to certain parties that may not be known to you—parties that have the direct confidences of your president. You see, there are conservative elements within your government that have been attempting to persuade investors buildup of conventional armament is the key to restoring Russian military superiority. They see technical advancements as merely fodder to be stolen by others and used against them. This is why they’ve done everything in their power to slow the manufacture of your prototypes.”

Dratshev shook his head. “Then why go to such great lengths to protect me? Why not simply kill me?”

“I do not have the answer to that question, although I have frequently considered it.” Madari gestured at him. “However, I think you are sufficiently intelligent enough that you have pondered this point yourself, and most likely formulated your own answer.”

Dratshev had, in fact, and it was something he’d dared never utter for fear it might become a reality. Those inside the government who preferred conventional military might would never have risked assassination for fear of alienating those holding the power of the purse. What impressed Dratshev, however, was Madari’s refusal to conjure some story in answer to Dratshev’s question. Madari’s simple acknowledgment of ignorance demonstrated a rare and unusual sense of honesty. Dratshev had to admit he actually found that refreshing.

“This is all interesting,” Dratshev said, “but it still doesn’t drill down to the reason you’ve gone to these lengths.”

Madari smiled and then stood. “I believe it would be wiser to wait until you are more lucid to engage in such a conversation. All in good time, Dr. Dratshev.”

Madari whirled on his heel and as he headed for the door he added, “In the meantime, please consider yourself a guest and, should you need anything, perhaps food or a blanket, my assistant will be happy to get it for you. You should take every opportunity afforded you on this point. We’re still six hours from our destination.”

When Madari was gone, Dratshev took time to inspect his bonds. As he’d suspected, the restraints circling his wrists were thick leather fastened by chains. Escaping such bonds would be impossible. He looked at his legs and noted they were also secured in like fashion.

Finally, Dratshev laid his head back and closed his eyes. Best to get as much sleep as possible and wait for a more opportune time to make his escape.

Sooner or later, he knew such a solution would present itself. It always did when one exercised patience.

* * *

ELEVEN MEN WAITED as their leader studied the facility through a night-vision scope. To local residents, it appeared to be nothing more than what it was advertised: a research center run by the department of agriculture.

Colonel Jack Cyrus knew it to be otherwise, which was why he and his team were in rural Iowa.

Cyrus lowered the scope and passed it to his second-in-command, Riley Braden. “Interesting. The security appears to be minimal.”

Braden took the scope and performed his own inspection. “I agree, sir.”

Cyrus tried not to wince at the “sir” despite the fact he understood it. It was protocol but difficult to hear coming from a man that had not only been his peer throughout their respective military careers, but also his friend since high school. In private, they addressed each other by name but out here in the field they had to set an example and chain of command in front of the others.

Braden continued. “Ten-foot fence with cyclone wire. No visible sentries, so probably armed security inside.”

“Rent-a-cops, at best,” Cyrus replied.

“And probably not that many.”

“Intelligence says they walk rounds with e-point checks at regular intervals. That means they can’t cover the whole area at one time.”

“I’d concur with that assessment,” Braden agreed. “What’s your plan?”

“We have to assume a facility of that size will have full video-and audio-camera surveillance.” Cyrus turned to Braden. “I see a training opportunity here, Major. What do you think is the best course of action?”

Braden didn’t hesitate in his reply. “Two teams. Breach the northeast corner of the perimeter fence. First team will locate the power sources and neutralize them, including generators. Second team makes entry to the building and then sends two to retrieve the data while the rest deal with any human elements. Outer team will provide perimeter and egress security, as well as mission failsafe.”

Cyrus nodded, impressed with his friend and colleague. “Excellent tactical plan, Major Braden. Exactly what I would’ve done. I’d say the decision’s been made.”

“Thank you, Colonel.”

“You’ll lead the inside team.”

Braden looked surprised. “I don’t know the job.”

“You know it as well as I do.”

“Yes, sir, but I was trained to do it only in the event you could not.”

“Nonsense. There’s no difference.”

“Sir, with all due respect, I strongly suggest you reconsider.”

Cyrus didn’t look at Braden as he responded in short fashion, “I already have, Major. It’s not a request. You will lead the primary team and you will accomplish the mission objectives as they’ve been given to us. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then let’s move out.”

Braden nodded and turned to the team members he would now be leading on the mission. As he briefed them on the change in plans, Cyrus sighed. He’d considered sticking to the original mission parameters but he wanted his friend to take credit for what he knew would be another success. Their employer, who’d expressed reservations about bringing Riley Braden into the fold from the beginning, had to know that Braden had as much command ability and skill as Cyrus. This would be Braden’s chance to prove it without even being aware Cyrus was putting him to the test. Cyrus had learned long ago one mark of a good leader was to set up those in his command to succeed whenever possible. Not only did it boost morale but it also instilled confidence in self—not to mention what it did for unit cohesion.

The teams automatically performed a last check of equipment and then broke into approach formation. Every man knew what to do, where to stage in relationship to every other man, and what their individual responsibilities. They’d trained for this dozens of times until they’d had it down like clockwork.

The exterior team arrived first and two men went to work on the fence, cutting links with the marked precision of professionals. Cyrus knew they’d practiced, but his chest swelled with pride as he watched them in action. Within thirty seconds they’d made the ingress.

With a nod from Cyrus, Braden gestured to his team and they moved through the hold. The two squad weapons men took point and then Braden. The remaining trio proceeded after him. They moved across the field at a breakneck clip and located the power boxes stationed on the exterior of the main building.

Braden knelt and flicked his thumb twice at two of his team members. The demo guys went to work on the boxes, priming them with the charges. Braden risked a glance over his shoulder and saw Cyrus making his way through the fence in the same way Braden’s team had just a minute earlier.

Once the charges were set, Braden and his men broke from their positions and headed toward the rear door where they’d planned to make their entry. They were nearly there when the charges blew the power boxes apart. Every interior light in the building went out, as well as power to a small external building. One of the men blew the lock off the door with a small roll of self-detonating plastic explosive and within seconds Braden’s team had gained access.

“You have five minutes.” Cyrus’s voice resounded in Braden’s headset. “Mark T-minus five, starting now. Radio silence from this point.”

“Copy,” Braden replied.

The six men pushed up the darkened corridor, moving smoothly as one unit. They followed a standard fire-and-maneuver pattern, leap-frogging in pairs as they approached their objective.

They reached the data room unmolested and Braden gestured for four of his men to fan out while the other would provide cover while he made his entry. The door proved no match for the pencil detonator that shot the bolt lock inward as if it had been fired from a potato gun. Braden eased the door open and snatched the red-lens flashlight from his equipment harness.

He managed to get about three feet inside before bullets crashed into the chest of his comrade and drove the man into the door frame. Braden wondered how he managed to avoid a similar fate even as he threw himself the floor and a fresh volley burned the air where he’d stood a millisecond earlier.

Braden brought his Steyr Aug Para into play and triggered a burst in the direction of the muzzle-flashes. The rounds bounced off a solid object marked by the sparks from their impact. It took Braden a moment to realize that he’d been firing into bulletproof glass.

Braden rolled onto his back and yanked an HE grenade from his harness. He primed the hand bomb and tossed it overhead before jumping to his feet and rushing toward the door. He threw himself around the corner and landed on his belly just as the grenade blew. Red, yellow and orange flame whooshed through the open door.

“We’re blown!” he shouted at his men. “Retreat!”

None of them had to be told twice, two taking point and two more providing rear cover with Braden between them. The men dashed up the hallway at full sprint and exited the building in time to see a firefight had already ensued between Cyrus and his team.

Braden and his men spread out and engaged whatever targets presented. The air came alive with reports from dozens of automatic weapons on both sides. To the observer it would’ve seemed as if a small war had erupted in the USDA’s “research facility” and it would’ve been a bizarre sight, at best.

Braden managed to rendezvous with Cyrus, miraculously avoiding death in the process.

“What happened?” Cyrus demanded during a lull in the shooting.

“Ambush,” Braden replied as he sighted on an enemy gunner and squeezed the trigger. “They were waiting for us.”

“Blown immediately? From the start?”

“It would seem so,” Braden said through clenched teeth as he fired at another target, missing by a narrow margin.

“You’ve ordered a retreat?”

Braden nodded.

“We can’t stay here,” Cyrus said.

“You mean you want to leave them?”

“They have their orders.”‘

“Sir, we have to—”

“Do it, Major. Just do it!”

Braden didn’t hesitate, knowing orders were orders. He and Cyrus scrambled to their feet and fired a few extra short bursts to help cover their escape through the perimeter fence. They had a vehicle waiting in the woods, a late-model custom van. It was obvious they’d been expected, so the success of their getaway was by no means guaranteed. But one thing Cyrus and Braden agreed on as they made their way to the van, there would be a day of reckoning.

There would be payback and it would be a revenge of the sweetest kind.

CHAPTER THREE

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

The five battle-hardened warriors of Phoenix Force sat attentively as Harold Brognola, head of the most covert special operations agency in America, opened the briefing.

“We’re long on intelligence and short on time, so let’s get right to it,” Brognola said. He looked at Barbara Price and nodded.

Price, Stony Man’s mission controller, tapped the key on the table-top keyboard in front of her and the operations center conference room lights dimmed. A moment later the face of a young man with dirty-blond hair appeared on the 72-inch LED screen at one end of the room.

“Gentlemen, meet Dr. Oleg Dratshev. This picture was taken about ten years ago when he was age twenty-five. For more than a decade Dratshev has been Russia’s foremost military R and D scientist in the areas of electromagnetic pulse weapons. He holds several advanced degrees and his work has been financed directly by the Kremlin. Two days ago he disappeared.”

Price paused for effect and met the gaze of every Phoenix Force warrior before she continued. “Dr. Dratshev is highly respected by most members of the military scientific community. His security was handled by the FSB. He was taken by a party or parties unknown, and thus far no ransom demand has been made. The Russian government has attempted to keep his disappearance a secret, but it was hardly possible given that he disappeared shortly after arriving in Minsk and the grabbers left the bodies of four FSB agents behind.”

Phoenix Force’s team leader, David McCarter, cleared his throat and asked, “Do we know why he was in Minsk?”

Price shook her head. “We don’t have any positive proof but we believe he may have been there to oversee the test demonstration of some prototype weaponry he designed.”

Calvin James let out a low whistle. “Funny they’d think testing weapons of that size in a foreign territory would be something they could keep a lid on.”

“Well, the buzz running through the highest channels at both the CIA and NSA would indicate they weren’t testing high-energy weapons,” Price replied.

“Wait a minute,” Gary Manning interjected. “Are you saying Dratshev has come up with a design for EMP application using small arms?”

“It would seem so,” Price replied.

Each of the Phoenix Force members muttered curses under their breath and an icy tension settled on all present.

“That’s unthinkable,” Rafael Encizo said. A Cuban native and one of the original Phoenix Force veterans, Encizo was the team’s resident specialist in maritime operations and an expert knife fighter.

“As far as we know,” Price said, “the capabilities of EMP in small arms are still little more than an untested theory. But we do think that given how long Dratshev’s been working on the project, coupled with the Russian government’s continued financing of his research, those capabilities are a very real possibility.”

“Excuse me,” Thomas Jackson Hawkins said, raising a hand in automatic reflex.

“T.J.?” Price acknowledged with a nod.

“I was under the impression EMP was still somewhat poorly understood. At least from the perspective of safe weaponization.”

“I think Bear could give us a more expert opinion on that concept,” Brognola said. “Aaron?”

The other man in the room differed more than the rest in just the fact that he was confined to a wheelchair. By any standards Aaron Kurtzman had an IQ nearly off the charts and the uncanny ability to collect, sort and manipulate copious amounts of electronic data into logical chunks of intelligence. Those talents, coupled with his leadership of all of Stony Man’s computer-based operations, had saved the lives of every field team member on occasions almost too numerous to quantify.

Kurtzman grinned, happy as always to be in his element. “From the standpoint of physics, electromagnetics is a relatively simple principle to grasp. Think about the Earth. Surrounding our atmosphere is an electromagnetic field, which is generated by the Earth’s core of molten metal spinning at thousands of miles per hour. At least that’s the generally accepted scientific axiom.

“That field helps contain our air and moisture, but more importantly it protects us from the cosmic radiation generated by the sun. Now suppose that you could harness such a field on a microcosmic level and confine it into a narrow beam, a particle beam of sorts. By creating the initial energy and then liberating said energy, a pulse is formed that has all the magnetic force behind it with one distinct difference—it can be focused at a single point.”

“Sounds more like you’re talking about a laser,” McCarter remarked. The fox-faced Briton furrowed his brow. “Is there a difference?”

“Big difference,” Kurtzman replied. “A laser beam has to be intensely focused and remain constant to weaponize it. This requires an intense amount of sustained energy. That’s where we draw the line between science and science fiction. But with an EMP, the energy is already contained within the pulse. It then becomes merely a matter of focusing it.”

“But wouldn’t the same principle apply?” James asked. “I mean…wouldn’t it take as much energy to build up an electromagnetic charge as a laser beam?”

Kurtzman shook his head. “Not according to what Dr. Dratshev’s many years of research has revealed. Somehow, Dratshev has discovered a way to generate that energy at the atomic or even subatomic level.”

“Or at least that’s what our intelligence agencies have surmised,” Price said.

“Unfortunately we don’t have the time to give you a full physics lesson right now,” Brognola cut in. “The important thing to know is that Dratshev has found some way of doing it, and now he’s fallen into the hands of someone willing to go to great lengths to possess that knowledge. Someone we deem to be extremely dangerous.”

“But how can we know they’re dangerous with any certainty?” Hawkins asked.

It was Gary Manning, former member of the RCMP and a self-taught expert on nearly every terrorist organization in the world, who answered. “Because anyone bold enough to go up against the Russian government and, in particular the FSB, is just plain crazy.”

“Or fanatical, at least,” McCarter added.

“In any case,” Price said, “we have to assume the worst. Dratshev’s abduction must be deemed a direct threat against the United States and her allies until otherwise verified. That’s why we’ve activated Phoenix Force.”

“And Able Team,” Brognola added.

“We’re going to work together on this one?” James inquired.

“Not exactly,” Price said. “Not too long after we received the news of Dratshev’s disappearance, an incident occurred at a U.S. Department of Agriculture research facility in a rural area north of Des Moines, Iowa.”

“Uh-oh,” McCarter said. “If memory serves, Barb, isn’t that—?”

“Yes, it’s a data backup warehouse for a special sector of international satellite operations overseen by the NSA.”

James looked at McCarter in amazement. “How the hell did you know that?”

McCarter shrugged. “I read the classified CERN bulletins.”

Hawkins chuckled. “The European Organization for Nuclear Research bulletins? What a nerd.”

“Don’t forget mission controller’s pet,” Encizo added.

“Moving right along to the incident?” Brognola prompted

“Go ahead, Barb,” Manning said. “I’m listening.”

Price smiled. “An armed force of about a dozen men breached the USDA facility and was engaged by security personnel. A number of men were killed on both sides, and about half of this mysterious team managed to escape. Unfortunately there were no survivors to question.”

“Any idea who they were working for?” James asked.

“No,” Price said, shaking her head. “All of the deceased were American citizens with military experience, however. So we’re thinking some sort of mercenary group.”

Brognola said, “The NSA apparently got wind something like this might take place and so they beefed up security just in case there was something to it. Turns out they were right.”

“Then they must have some idea what this team was after,” McCarter said. “Breaking into a bloody NSA data facility is a risky op. The stakes had to be high.”

“We won’t know for sure until Able Team can get there and start an investigation of its own,” Price replied. “What’s interesting about this attack, though, is that the particular data sets stored there by the NSA include covert operations in Belarus and a number of surrounding countries.”

“Which is where Dratshev disappeared,” Hawkins concluded.

“Right,” Brognola said.

Price added, “That’s why we think the two incidents are connected, and thus far the intelligence we’ve gathered would seem to support that theory.”

“What we don’t understand yet is what domestic interest would launch an operation on U.S. soil and why,” Brognola pointed out.

“Well, it sure wasn’t whoever snatched Dratshev,” Encizo replied. “That wouldn’t make any sense.”

“Unless they were trying to divert our attention.”

McCarter shook his head. “I’d have a lot of trouble buying that, Hal. First, it would imply that our own people snatched Dratshev. Second, it wouldn’t make sense to put good resources as such risk for the purpose of creating a smoke screen.”

“That would be an expensive diversion,” Price conceded with a nod.

“And we’re not dealing with idiots or amateurs in any case,” Manning remarked. “That much is obvious.”

Price said, “Well, we figure Able Team will be able to tell us something soon enough. Meanwhile, we’re sending you to Belarus. You’ll pick up whatever clues you can.”

“Are we sure that’s the best place to start?” McCarter asked.

Price nodded. “We have a CIA contact there who’s been shadowing the FSB team sent to retrieve Dratshev when he contacted his handler and reported he’d been compromised. An insider told our contact there was a significant delay notifying the backup team.”

“So this was an inside job,” Hawkins observed in his typical Texas drawl.

“It would seem so.”

McCarter scratched his jaw in consideration. “Any possibility the Russians staged this whole thing?”

“It’s always possible,” Price said with a shrug. “But to what end?”

“Maybe they wanted to throw everyone off Dratshev’s trail? Think about it. They fake his abduction and then everybody starts looking for him in all but the obvious place. His own backyard.”

“We posed that as a potential scenario to our CIA contact and he didn’t think it was likely,” Brognola said. “He’s convinced the kidnapping is real and the threat is viable, mostly due to the amount of scrambling the FSB’s doing. They’ve apparently crawled under every rock and into every crevice of the city.”

“Okay, then I guess it’s off to Minsk we go,” McCarter said.

“If there’s any more intelligence that comes our way while you’re en route,” Price said, “we can always divert you.”

The five warriors nodded in concert.

“Good luck, men,” Harold Brognola added.

* * *

CARL LYONS WAS enjoying an icy swim through a Mississippi tributary in northern Minnesota when the waterproof GPS device around his wrist sent a very mild tingle along his skin.

Lyons pushed his body against the strong current, his muscular arms and shoulders propelling him through choppy waters that would have bested a lesser man. This was just one of the many feats that had earned Lyons his Ironman nickname.

Lyons reached shore and climbed from the water onto the trunk of a fallen tree. He swung his legs over it and planted his feet on terra firma. Beads of water dribbled from every part of skin that had taken on a golden-bronze tone under three days of the early summer sun.

Lyons checked the device as it signaled him again and then set off into a half-mile trot until he reached the spot where he’d left his two companions. He found them both fast asleep, a rock pit smoldering with red-orange wood coals the only remainder of the campfire they’d started the night before.

Lyons put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “Pathetic.” He then walked over and kicked the soles of their feet.

The first man, husky and muscular with gray-white hair, awoke with a start. “What’s the big idea, Ironman?” Rosario “Politician” Blancanales demanded. “That’s no way to wake up a friend.”

The other man had barely stirred, although that hardly fooled Lyons. He knew that both of them were trained well enough they’d probably detected his approach while he was still out of sight. Those same instincts, forged from years of combat and training, were the ones that had registered Lyons as an entity that didn’t pose any threat.

Hermann “Gadgets” Schwarz yawned. “Yeah. Really, Ironman, you have no class.”

“Shape up, boys,” Lyons said. “I got buzzed.”

Schwarz looked at Blancanales and rubbed one eye. “He’s not a very nice person.”

“Old age has made him cantankerous,” Blancanales replied.

“Stuff it,” Lyons muttered as he reached into his backpack and retrieved his cell phone.

Lyons issued a voice-coded command and the phone automatically dialed the secure satellite uplink to the communications center at Stony Man Farm.

When Price answered on the second ring, Lyons said, “You rang, Mizz Daisy?”

“I did,” she replied. “I’m sorry to cut your vacation short but we have big trouble. We just finished briefing Phoenix Force and they’re getting ready to depart for Belarus. We need you guys to head to the location I’m sending to your phone via secured traffic.”

“Can I have a clue?”

“North of Des Moines, Iowa. A research facility belonging to the USDA.”

“Understood. We’ll head for the car now.” He looked at Blancanales and Schwarz and grinned as he added, “Tweedledee and Tweedledum were only sleeping.”

“Probably trying to catch up.”

“We’ll get all the sleep we need when we’re dead.”

“Not funny, Carl.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Get moving and call me back when you’re on the road. I can talk to all of you via the car phone.”

“Roger that. Out.”

Blancanales watched expectantly as Lyons disconnected while Schwarz had simply rolled over and started to drift. “Where we headed?”

“Some USDA facility in Iowa,” Lyons replied.

* * *

“AMERICAN MERCS OPERATING on American soil?” Lyons said into the roof-mounted speaker once they’d returned to their car. “That’s bizarre.”

“I think you’ve understated it,” Blancanales said from behind the wheel.

From the backseat Schwarz asked, “So I assume you think they were after something in the data vaults, Barb?”

“That’s our thought,” Price said. She explained their theory as it related to the disappearance of Dratshev.

“The timing does seem noteworthy,” Blancanales agreed.

“So what’s our approach?” Lyons asked. “I assume the FBI and NSA are already knee-deep in this. Are we going to run into territorial dick flexing?”

“Probably,” Price replied. “But you’d hardly be able to avoid it, no matter what. We did manage to put in a good word with the FBI’s SAIC, who’s been appointed as the lead in the investigation.”

“And who is this FBI Special Agent In Charge?”

“You’ll want to make contact with a guy named Robert Higgs. He’s a veteran investigator and one of the FBI’s most decorated agents.”

“What’s our cover?”

“Use your BATFE credentials,” Price replied. “If you come in expressing only interest in the weapons that were used, that should buy you at least some partial good will. Learn what you can and then funnel the information back to us.”

“Understood,” Lyons said. “We’ll get the info out of them.”

“Just find out everything you can and report back to us as soon as possible. It’s important we determine how this fits in to Phoenix Force’s mission before they reach Minsk,” Price explained.

“We’ll do our best,” Blancanales said.

“As always,” Schwarz added.

After they disconnected, Lyons tendered a grunt.

“What is it?” Blancanales asked.

“Just something really odd about it all.”

“You think the Farm’s right about a connection between Dratshev’s disappearance and this assault on the NSA data vault?” Schwarz asked.

“I wouldn’t dismiss it out of hand,” Lyons replied. “They’re usually right about those kinds of things. I wish we could take a more direct approach, though. Seems more and more that we’re being forced to fight bureaucratic red tape in our missions.”

Blancanales chuckled as he met Schwarz’s gaze in the rearview mirror. “Sounds like Ironman’s got a bit of nostalgia for the good old days.”

“Can you blame him?” Schwarz replied. “He makes a good point, actually. Used to be we could go in, kick ass and take names. Now we have to walk on eggshells just to keep our cover.”

“Exactly,” Lyons agreed.

“Look at it this way, Ironman,” Blancanales said. “Those are opportunities to build your skills in normal social interaction.”

“I have skills,” Lyons rumbled. “Aim and squeeze the trigger. Playing nice-nice wasn’t anywhere in my job description.”

“Well, guess we have to adopt the maxim that the only easy day was yesterday.”

“Yeah,” the Able Team leader replied. “But that doesn’t mean we have to like it.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Rural Iowa

A foul mood came over Special Agent in Charge Robert Higgs as he stared at the half-dozen bodies strewed across the grassy field of the USDA research facility. Higgs had been on a lot of crime scenes but this one had to be the most unusual.

A paramilitary team breaks into a supposed USDA site, engages in a gun battle with a security force armed more like commandos than federal rent-a-cops, and a bunch of people get killed. Higgs derived some comfort at the thought there were no innocent bystanders or civilians numbered among the casualties—that was the only thing about this that didn’t set his gut on fire.

Higgs was a teetotaler by any standards, but right at that moment he could’ve used a stiff belt of something stronger than the lukewarm coffee in the paper cup. He downed the remainder and then turned to look at one of his men who stood nearby holding an electronic clipboard.

“So what’s the verdict?”

Nick Winger sighed before replying. “Total of nine casualties—seven of them fatal and two with serious injuries. We got six bodies out here and one more inside the main building.”

“And the two injured were from the grenade?”

Winger nodded.

Higgs shook his head. “What a mess. And we don’t have a clue yet why this even happened.”

“You’ll get to the bottom of it, Bob.”

“You got more faith in my abilities than I do, Nick.”

“Yes, sir, maybe I do.”

“It’s interesting the team from the NSA didn’t have much to say.”

“What can they say? They’re a bunch of computer geeks. Special detachment specialized in recovering data from systems damaged by disasters.”

“Yeah, we both know that’s bullshit,” Higgs replied. “I’ve worked with those guys before. They’re actually specialized in recovering data for natural disasters—things such as floods and tornados and fires—not bombs and grenades and bullets.”

“Well, I suppose the applications are similar in nature.”

“We’ll see.” Higgs sucked air through his teeth. “Ask me, I think they’re a scrub team. I think this place did a little more than just agricultural research.”

“If it did, they’re not going to tell us,” Winger pointed out.

“Excuse me, sir,” another agent said. He approached with three men who were dressed in suits, ties and sunglasses.

More government types, Higgs thought, but he said, “What is it, Mackenzie?”

“These guys just arrived from BATFE. They asked to speak to you.” Mackenzie paused and then more quietly added, “They asked for you by name.”

Higgs scanned the grim faces of the three men and then nodded at Mackenzie. “I’ll take it from here.”

The fit blond one of the group said, “You’re Higgs? Name’s Carl Irons.”

Higgs shook the hand offered him. Irons had a strong, firm grip and there was something special about the way he carried himself. In fact, all three of them moved and acted with confident authority, and Higgs surmised almost immediately they weren’t who they claimed they were, despite what they claimed.

“What’s your interest here?”

“Some place we can talk private?”

Higgs looked at Winger and nodded. The man glanced at the three newcomers and then turned and departed without saying a word.

“Okay, what’s up?”

* * *

WHEN LYONS FINISHED giving Higgs the cover story about their interest in the guns that were used, the FBI agent spent a long time staring at him.

Finally he said, “You don’t actually expect me to believe that story.”

“Frankly, I don’t care if you believe it or not,” Lyons said with a scowl.

“Uh…look, Higgs,” Blancanales said easily, stepping forward to avert a pissing contest. “We’re not interested in jumping on your case or even taking credit. You have to admit—” Blancanales waved in the direction of the carnage “—that this is an awful lot to handle. If you’d just let us inspect the weapons that were used, we’d be able to trace them a lot faster than your labs probably could.”

“The FBI might even have turned to our people anyway for that support,” Schwarz added with a shrug. “So there’s really no reason for you not to cooperate with us.”

Higgs shook his head, keeping one eye on Lyons. “I’m more than happy to show a little interagency cooperation. But the fact is I expect honesty out of anyone I deal with. In other words, no bullshit and no cockamamie stories like the NSA data-recovery geeks who showed up on a whim—very similar to the way you boys did—with some fish tale about specializing in disaster scenarios.”

“Just what is it you’re trying to get at?” Blancanales asked.

Higgs couldn’t seem to help but tender a snort of derision. “Okay, let me be more direct since I’m asking the same courtesy from you guys. First, BATFE agents don’t typically operate in threes. They’d send a single field agent and maybe a backup man. That’s SOP for them, just as it is for us. Second, I’ve worked with plenty of BATFE agents before. You guys don’t move like them, talk like them or act like them. You’re professionals, although professional whats I’m not yet sure. My guess is troubleshooters, maybe CIA or NSA, but that’s less likely than maybe DHS. Maybe you’re on a page that’s not even in the official playbook.”

Blancanales couldn’t refrain from flashing the guy a broad grin. “Okay, so you’re obviously much smarter than our people gave you credit for. Fair enough.” Blancanales looked at Lyons. “I can’t be more specific without your approval.”

Lyons exchanged looks with Higgs and then nodded.

Blancanales said, “You’re right, we’re not on any page in the official playbook. I can’t get into it right now but what I can tell you is we got backing. Big backing.”

“How big?”

It was Schwarz who answered, “Okay, well, you know that big white building in Washington? You know—the one with the big pillars in front?”

Higgs stared at Schwarz a moment and then mumbled, “I see.”

“Actually, you don’t see,” Lyons said. “If you get my meaning?”

“I get you,” Higgs replied.

Lyons said, “As to the reason for our visit, let’s just say we’re after the same thing the NSA boys are after. Only fact is we already know what information was contained in that data vault. We’re way more interested in finding out who wanted that information and why.”

“And if I cooperate and help you find them, I’ll close my case, as well.”

“That’s the general idea, yeah.”

“Okay, then I guess there’s no harm in telling you what we know so far. Especially since it isn’t a hell of a lot.”

Blancanales folded his arms. “We’re all ears.”

* * *

Washington, D.C.

DAVID ERNEST STEINHAM stared out the vast array of windows from the fifteenth story of his office building. He smiled at the breathtaking view of the Potomac, and with good reason—he’d paid a small fortune for it.

But Steinham also knew he’d earned every penny of the millions of dollars his company had made. Steinham had started Dynamic Core Defense Industries in the late eighties, not too long after the Reagan presidency started granting massive contracts for companies willing to perform the latest in military R and D. Steinham, an eager young college graduate, had jumped at the opportunity and built his empire from the ground up.

Year after year, DCDI would innovate new defense solutions and, year after year, the government would renew with the company under an even more lucrative contract. Over the nearly past thirty years, Steinham’s company had made billions and managed to remain privately owned. They also had the dubious reputation of being one of the largest government-contracted employers in North America.

Steinham turned at the sound of his office door opening. The two men who entered looked stressed and weary, despite the fact they both wore pressed suits and were clean-shaved.

“Gentlemen,” Steinham said, waving them to leather chairs and love seats arranged in a hexagonal shape around a low, lead-crystal coffee table. “Please sit down. I’m sure you’re tired.”

“That would be an understatement, sir,” Jack Cyrus replied.

Steinham waited to take his seat until after Cyrus and Riley Braden were comfortable. “Can I get you anything?”

The men shook their heads.

Steinham crossed his legs, tugged at the crease line of one pant leg and said, “I’ve reviewed your report very carefully, Colonel Cyrus. I’m terribly sorry for the loss of some of your men.”

Cyrus cleared his throat before replying, “Thank you, sir.”

“Have you managed to contact the others who survived?”

“We have, sir. They’re all fine, no injuries.”

“And you’re certain every one of those you were forced to leave behind was dead?”

Steinham could see the flush of embarrassment mixed with anger on Cyrus’s face. He’d probably not appreciated the way Steinham had phrased that particular question, but then, Steinham didn’t give a good damn. Cyrus understood quite well who paid the bills, and Steinham had been quite clear in his expectations before ever agreeing to hire the mercenary leader.

“All those of my men who were left behind are confirmed KIAs, sir. You have no reason to be concerned about security.”

“And I assume no reason to believe they will manage to trace any of those men back here.”

It was Braden who spoke up. “Begging your pardon, Colonel?”

Cyrus nodded and Braden looked at Steinham. “Sir, I was the one who personally vetted every one of the men on our team. I can assure you that nothing in their identities or covers could be traced back to you, DCDI or any of your affiliated holdings.”

“Thank you, Major Braden. I’ll take you at your word. With that matter dispensed, the only thing left to discuss is your failure to retrieve the information on the most probable entities responsible for Oleg Dratshev’s disappearance.” Steinham looked Cyrus in the eye. “You understand, Colonel, the very seriousness this failure on your part to accomplish the mission objectives?”

“I do understand,” Cyrus said, obviously trying to remain calm. “But you must realize that the reason we failed is the same reason I lost a half dozen of my men. We were set up.”

“And you have proof of this?”

“He has me, sir,” Braden said. “And again, begging your pardon, Colonel? I was there, Mr. Steinham. Our failure to accomplish mission objectives had nothing to do with incompetence. We executed the plan exactly as we told you we would. Security forces there had been beefed up and they were actually waiting inside the data vault.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what Colonel Cyrus’s report indicates,” Steinham said. “But that’s not enough to prove you were set up.”

“I would tend to agree with you, sir,” Cyrus replied. “But it does indicate they knew we were coming. And they specifically waited until we were well inside the perimeter to engage us. Had this been a legitimate federal op, they would’ve hit before we ever got the chance to get inside.”

Steinham shook his head. “What’s your point exactly, Colonel?”

“My point, sir, is that they seemed fully intent on destroying our entire team. I think they wanted to make sure none of us got out alive. Had we not been split into two teams, they might well have gotten away with it.”

Steinham considered this and finally nodded. He had to admit there was significant merit to what Cyrus and Braden had told him. “I’ll agree someone or something definitely wanted to keep the incident on the QT. But it’s still disturbing because in any case, it would indicate we have a security leak inside DCDI. We can’t have that. Ever. So, gentlemen, I will leave it up to you to find the leak and plug it.”

“And how do you suggest we plug it?” Cyrus asked. The hard, level gaze Steinham made Cyrus reply, “I see.”

“Now since we weren’t able to obtain the information I’d hoped from the data vault, I was forced to pursue a secondary line of inquiry. I got a very interesting response.”

Steinham rose and poured himself a drink from the fully-stocked wet bar. He didn’t offer either of his guests anything. They were technically on duty and would’ve refused, so Steinham figured why bother.

Ice clinked in the tumbler as Steinham continued. “I would doubt either of you is familiar with electromagnetics beyond the most rudimentary facts, so you’ll indulge me while I elaborate.

“DCDI got involved in the physics of EMP weapons about ten years ago. In fact, I funded an entire department devoted solely to such research. But after three years and employing some of the best minds, we weren’t making enough headway so I shut the project down.”

Steinham poured his brandy and then returned to his seat before continuing. “Then we got wind through our connections inside the intelligence community of back-channel talk regarding Dr. Oleg Dratshev. They were mostly rumors, but they were enough to get my attention and, based on what I knew from our time of research here, those rumblings sounded very promising.

“I tried every way I knew to persuade Dratshev to come work for me but he is a staunch socialist and a man of—how can I say this?—eclectic tastes.”

“It would seem somebody beat you to the punch,” Cyrus said.

Steinham gave the remark serious consideration. “Perhaps. Although I would not have dismissed hiring your team to perform a similar action, Colonel, much of what we do here is still scrutinized by government overseers. I have to take my hat off to whoever managed to pull off Dratshev’s abduction. Of course, we may now never know who that is given your failure to retrieve information on his disappearance from the NSA’s data storage network.”

Cyrus seemed to squirm in his seat on that remark, something that gave Steinham a small measure of satisfaction. He couldn’t really blame Cyrus. He’d given the mercenary tougher jobs and the colonel had come through with an unusually high record of success. Based on that fact alone, Steinham had to admit there was some merit to the military man’s theory they’d been set up. But by who? And what were the chances this incident would eventually be traced back to him despite Cyrus’s assurances the operation couldn’t be linked to DCDI?

Steinham took a swallow of brandy, letting its smooth burn linger in his mouth and throat before he spoke. “But given we don’t have that intelligence, we must now draft an alternate plan to obtaining Dratshev’s whereabouts.”

“You have a suggestion, sir?” Braden asked.

Steinham couldn’t resist tendering a knowing smile. “As a matter of fact, I do. Some connections I have within the military community indicate that the FSB has launched a full investigation into Dratshev’s disappearance. There’s every indication that if they are able to locate him, they will most likely kill him. I believe your particular talents are well suited to preventing that from happening, Colonel Cyrus.”

“You want to send us overseas, then?” Cyrus asked.

“It wouldn’t be my first choice but…yes. I think sending you to Minsk to make contact with my man there would be the most prudent course of action. However, I don’t want you to go personally. I need you here for another operation.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“I’d like to send Major Braden.” Steinham pinned Cyrus’s adjutant with a serious gaze. “This operation will require a bit of stealth and an uncanny ability at improvisation. Outside of you, Major Braden is the only person I’d trust to do that.”

“You’ll forgive me for saying so, sir,” Cyrus replied, “but we had an agreement that my men answer to me and only me. You’re not permitted to give my men orders.”

“Be careful, Colonel Cyrus,” Steinham warned. “I don’t need to be reminded of our agreement. And I’m not attempting to give Major Braden orders. I’m merely suggesting that if he is not put in charge of the mission, I won’t move forward with it. Unfortunately that would force me to turn to other resources perhaps more…flexible.”

Cyrus didn’t say anything, so Steinham decided to let him stew on it awhile. He knew the guy would give in. His contract with Cyrus wasn’t exclusive, after all, and all present knew that fact all too well. If Steinham decided to go another way, that would signal his termination of their contractual relationship.

Steinham and DCDI had developed into an extremely lucrative contract for Cyrus’s group. To lose that contract would likely mean financial ruin.

Steinham let the thought play a bit longer as he downed the last of his brandy. Then he said, “But let’s not rush to any decisions just yet, eh, Colonel? Your team has been invaluable to me and I would not like to sever the ties between us just for the sake of expediency.”

“Nor would I,” Cyrus replied quickly, his face reddening ever so perceptibly.

Good, Steinham thought.

“So do you have a specific plan in mind, sir?” Cyrus asked, probably more in hope of changing the subject than in any real interest in the operation.

“I think sending a very small team to Minsk would be prudent,” Steinham said. “No more than three, at most. You may hand-pick them, of course, provided one of them will be Major Braden. I can then give you details on how to make contact with the CIA agent there. Beyond that, I don’t care about the details of the operation—you may plan them to the last letter. I only ask that you keep me apprised and if you have the opportunity to retrieve Dr. Dratshev you will do so at whatever costs necessary. We cannot afford another failure.”

Cyrus looked at Braden. “Major?”

“Yes, sir, I believe that can be arranged quite easily,” Braden replied.

Cyrus nodded and returned his gaze to Steinham. “It looks like we have a deal, sir. We can be ready to leave within three hours.”

“Excellent,” Steinham said. “You’ve made the right decision, Colonel. You won’t regret it.”

“I hope not,” Cyrus muttered.

Steinham believed the mercenary thought the remark had gone unheard. But Steinham had heard it—and he would certainly remember it.

CHAPTER FIVE

Beginning his third day of captivity, Oleg Dratshev rose, bathed and dressed in the expensive slacks and shirt provided by his captors. If nothing else, Madari had proved to have excellent taste in clothing, much like Dratshev, so to this point the Russian scientist had found his conditions tolerable.

In fact, he had to admit his “captivity” to this point had been surprisingly comfortable. He’d been free to roam Madari’s estate and surrounding grounds at will, not to mention fed and quartered in the lap of luxury.

As a purist and amateur homeopath—the only social vice being tobacco and the infrequent consumption of quality vodka—Dratshev had found it difficult to shake the effects of the drug they’d used to incapacitate him. His muscles still ached and he still experienced occasional nausea. Most of that had now subsided and Dratshev found it increasingly difficult to pass the time.

Madari obviously understood this well. In fact, Dratshev’s host hadn’t spoken to him since his arrival, apparently content to leave him be until Dratshev reached a more lucid and compliant state of mind. The quiet knock at the door, answered by one of the four large guards assigned to watch the prisoner, signaled Dratshev’s seclusion had finally come to an end.

Dratshev looked at the door from where he’d been seated and just finished the last plate of a massive breakfast served to him an hour earlier.

“Good morning, Dr. Dratshev,” Madari said as he took a seat at the opposite end of the table. “I take it you’re feeling better.”

“I am.”

Madari nodded with an expression of satisfaction. “I would assume the fact I’ve left you to your own devices the past couple days wasn’t lost on you.”

“It was not.” Dratshev downed the last of his lukewarm tea with milk.

“You’ve finished your breakfast, now, and you appear well rested. Good. We may then continue our conversation from the other day.”

Dratshev held up a hand. “While I’m grateful for your hospitality, and I choose that word only to show my deference to your kind treatment of me, I must again politely decline to assist you.”

Madari’s face remained passive. “I’m sorry you’ve chosen to take that position.”

“I’m sure. You undoubtedly have scruples and were careful not to mistreat me.”

“Mistreating you wouldn’t serve a purpose.”

“It wouldn’t,” Dratshev said. “Any more than employing vicious means would prompt me to cooperate with you.”

“One thing you should understand about me up front, Dr. Dratshev, is that I’m not an animal. My refraining from brutish treatment is a conscious choice—the only thing I feel separates us from the animals of today’s society. I’ve seen enough bloodshed and misery to last a couple of lifetimes. There is nothing as detestable to me as senseless violence.”

“Yet you chose to take me by force,” Dratshev said.

“Would you have come with me voluntarily?” Madari smiled and splayed his hands. “But the point you make is conceded. I did what I did only out of necessity, as I’ve already explained.”

Dratshev sighed. “I don’t suppose you have any cigarettes.”

Madari turned immediately to one of his men, who disappeared through the door, and then returned his intent gaze to Dratshev. “Might I be bold to suggest that the fact I’ve not harmed you would at least buy me an audience?”

“Only foolish men refuse to listen,” Dratshev said.

“My purpose for bringing you here is, quite simply, that I believe in the merits of your research. You see, Doctor, I was once a very high-ranking member of the Libyan government. My position in that government was not too dissimilar from your own—military research and development, although in an unrelated field.”

“So you’re a scientist, too.”

Madari laughed. “Hardly.”

The guard returned with a pack of cigarettes and matches. Madari waited until Dratshev had lit one before continuing, “It was my job to see to the security of scientists, much as those within your own FSB were assigned to do. This is why it was I took you from them with little effort.”

Dratshev exhaled a cloud of blue-gray smoke. “I can assure you that they will find out.”

“In due time,” Madari admitted. “But only when I’m ready to tell them. This will be very soon provided I can pique your curiosity.”

“I’ve already told you that I’m completely loyal to my country. I won’t cooperate with you.”

“Fair enough, but please at least afford me the opportunity to enlighten you to a few facts. The first being that you were betrayed by your own handler.”

“Phah! I don’t believe you.”

“You might if I told you that the team sent to extract you was only a few minutes away.”

Dratshev wasn’t sure he’d heard Madari correctly at first, but then he recalled the handler telling him the retrieval team had been an hour out. “That proves nothing.”

“It does when you consider our agent was able to positively identify you just minutes after you placed the call to your people.”

Dratshev remained silent.

“Oh, yes,” Madari said. “The very seductive young lady who engaged you in the club… She works for me. In fact, you will see her again very soon.”

“What does that prove, sir?”

“It proves we had eyes on you the moment you entered Minsk. We knew your travel plans, your location and your purpose for being there. All of it. That information all came courtesy of your handler. You see, despite any faith you might have in the volition of the FSB, there’s no question everyone has a price. Your handler came rather cheaply.

“But let’s forget that. The other more telling fact is that none of your prototypes was in Belarus. There was no secret development factory north of the city. The government of Belarus would have never permitted such activity by the Russians within your country, to say nothing of the half dozen foreign intelligence agencies with a presence there.”

“You’ve still not provided proof. I won’t take your word alone for it.”

“You don’t have to, Dr. Dratshev. I haven’t brought you here to tell stories. I’ve brought you here because I do have prototypes of your designs.”

“To what end?”

“As I explained, I was once a prominent member of the Libyan government. I was also a leader within what most of the world has dubbed the Arab Spring. But my reasons for that involvement were based solely on my desire to see the Libyan government leave behind the chains of despotism and tyranny that have so long plagued it, and enter into a new and true form of democratic government. A government elected by the people, not by sedition and fear.”

“A noble goal, if true,” Dratshev said, inclining his head to show respect for the idea. “But somewhat naive, don’t you think?”

Madari seemed unmoved. “Is it? You seem to forget my background. I’ve spent most of my adult life around scientists and I understand how they think.”

“Is that right?”

“It is. Stop and consider for a moment why you do what you do, Doctor. The mind of a genius is not motivated by something so abstract and banal as patriotism or thirst for power. Most are also not given to fame or fortune, despite their gigantic egos. No, Dr. Dratshev, I imagine you’re motivated by what most of your kind are—scientific curiosity and the thrill of discovery.”

“And that’s what you’re counting on with me?”

Madari produced a gentle laugh. “That’s exactly what I’m counting on. Come on, admit it. You are curious about the prototypes.”

“Perhaps,” Dratshev said with a shrug, although he knew Madari was too clever to be fooled. “But I won’t help you perfect them.”

“Well, I’m determined not to take no for an answer,” Madari said as he stood. “Would you be kind enough to accompany me to the range?”

Dratshev stubbed out his cigarette, pocketed the remaining pack and matches, and rose with a shrug. “I suppose there’s no harm. And it’s not as though I have a choice, eh?”

“Take heart, Doctor,” Madari replied. “I think you’re about to be impressed.”

As they walked down the long corridor that terminated in an exit, Dratshev said, “I must admit you have a very nice home.”

“Thank you.”

“I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me where we are.”

“Of course,” Madari said. “We’re in the Greek Isles. Although you’ll understand if I’m not more specific than that. Not that you could escape. Not unless you are an excellent swimmer and impervious to sharks.”

“I’ll take your word for it. I am curious about another matter.”

“You’re going to ask where I learned to speak Russian.”

“Very clever.”

“Not really,” Madari said. “As I noted earlier, I have a comprehensive understanding of scientific curiosity. Although, I’m hardly an enigma to be solved. While most would consider a native of the Middle East who lives in the Mediterranean and speaks fluent Russian—and I admit that on the surface it’s odd—you’ll remember I was trained in security at a military R and D facility in the northern region of Libya. I spent many years there. Some of our scientists were from other countries, including a few from the former Soviet Union. I spent four years training in a number of languages. I also speak English and Spanish. And Arabic, of course.”

“Of course.”

The pair walked the rest of the way in silence and it wasn’t until they reached the range that Dratshev understood why he’d not seen it during his earlier romps through the massive grounds. The range was accessed off a secured, gated entrance obscured by foliage woven directly into the chain links of the gate.

They passed through a narrow path created by a natural break between two hedgerows that stood well above their heads. They emerged on the other side and Dratshev immediately recognized the familiar sunken bunkers and supply buildings that probably housed an array of weaponry.

“My security team utilizes this as their training grounds, as well.”

“Impressive.”

“Not yet,” Madari said with a chuckle.

Madari led him to one of the short, squat buildings and rapped twice on a heavy metal door. The door opened and two men emerged, each carrying the oddest-looking weapons Dratshev had ever seen. They literally looked like something out of a science-fiction movie. The barrels, or what Dratshev assumed to be barrels, were thick and extraordinarily long—he estimated nearly nine feet. Directly behind the barrel was a boxy, transparent chamber containing some type of coiled tubing. The stock had a brushed steel finish but there were flutes in the superior line of the stock that looked like bubble levels. Dratshev’s mouth dropped open as he realized they were filled with liquid helium.

Madari looked wholly satisfied. “I can see from your expression that our designs aren’t that far off from your own.”

Dratshev clamped his mouth closed before responding. “Hardly. They’re not even close, actually.”

“Nice try, Dr. Dratshev, but I’d advise you to stick to the truth. You’re really not much of a liar.” Madari took one of the weapons and hefted it. “These are our phase-two prototypes, actually, the closest we’ve been able to come to your original design specifications. But I can assure you your government hasn’t come anywhere close to building anything like it. The barrel, you’ll note, is still too long to make the weapon practical in small-arms applications, but we’ve had difficulty producing sufficient energy pulses through anything shorter. This is one of things I hope you can help us with.”

“I’ve already told you—”

“Yes, yes, I know.” Madari extended the weapon. “Here, you may hold it.”

“I don’t wish to hold it.”

“Please.”

Dratshev folded his arms, determined not to be swayed by Madari’s charms. And yet…something about seeing a prototype EMP of his design, even if they hadn’t gotten it nearly correct, seemed irresistible.

“Please,” Madari reiterated.

“Very well,” Dratshev said, taking the weapon gingerly from his captor-host.

It proved much lighter than he’d expected and he nearly dropped it from over-compensation. The barrel made it top-heavy and he had to angle it slightly to prevent the thing from landing in the gravel-and-dust floor of the range. Dratshev took a minute or two to examine the finer details and on closer inspection confirmed his suspicions about the liquid helium.

Finally he looked at Madari. “How did you—?”

“You’re going to ask how I knew about the specifications. As I already explained, everyone has a price. Your handler has been extremely cooperative.”

“My handler knew nothing about the designs.”

“On the contrary, your handler knew everything about your designs. He intercepted the plans you sent to the manufacturing facility. He also arranged your transfer, without authorization from your government, I might add.”

Dratshev didn’t want to believe it, but his gut told him Madari spoke the truth. So he’d been set up from the beginning. And Dratshev’s handler had probably come up with some story to their masters at the Kremlin about how Dratshev had arranged his own abduction as a means for defection. The leaders in Moscow were certain to have assumed by now that Dratshev was a traitor. Any FSB detachment sent wouldn’t be on a search-and-rescue mission—Moscow would send an assassination team. And Dratshev knew they wouldn’t rest until he was dead.

“Ah, I see the light has come on,” Madari said with a knowing grin. “You finally understand the truth. You see, Dr. Dratshev, I didn’t really kidnap you. I saved your life.”

“And now you think I owe you something for that.”

“Not at all.” Madari shrugged. “It makes no difference to me if you continue to maintain your loyalty to Mother Russia. But understand that if you don’t cooperate with me, I will be left with no other alternative.”

“And that is?”

“To liberate you.”

“I like that,” Dratshev replied with a scornful laugh. “It sounds much better than kill me.”

“No, I literally meant I would free you. You’ll find me a very literal man, sir. As I’ve told you, I’m not an animal or a murderer. If you refuse to cooperate, I will set you free.”

“And then what?”

Madari shrugged, clasped his hands behind his back and replied, “Then I’m certain the FSB will have no trouble finding you and terminating your life—this I can most assuredly guarantee you. This is really to say that releasing you poses absolutely no liability to me. And even if you managed to escape, chances are good you’ll be on the run for the rest of your life. The odds aren’t in your favor, to put it bluntly.”

“It seems to have escaped your notice that if I’m dead, you will be unable to complete building of the prototypes.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Madari favored him with a wan smile. “If you refuse to cooperate, my situation hasn’t changed. And with you dead, I alone possess the knowledge and research, which I will put up for auction to the highest bidder.”

“You seem to forget my government has the information, as well.”

Madari shook his head. “Not all of it. Dr. Dratshev. My arrangement with your handler goes back considerably. Five years or better now, I think. He’s only given your people part of the information and none of the prototype specifications. Those have come straight to me and I have lined your handler’s coffers handsomely for that information.”

Dratshev had heard enough and could no longer contain his temper. “None of this makes any sense, Mr. Madari.”

“Please, call me—”

“Don’t interrupt me! Now you’ve been a gracious host—nay, a captor—to this point, but I can no longer tolerate your egomania. I don’t know what your purposes really are for stealing me and my work, but I deem they are more nefarious than anything else—despite what you say about wanting to bring democracy to your country. I doubt you have little if any influence left there, which probably explains why you’re here.” Dratshev gestured to indicate their surroundings.

“What I do believe is that you have no interest in keeping me alive unless I’m willing to unconditionally acquiesce to your wishes. I am not. Whatever else you may be, Mr. Madari—a gentleman or a patriot or perhaps merely an opportunist out to make as much money and a name for yourself as possible—you are a scoundrel. A wolf in sheep’s clothing. So let us not pretend that your benevolence doesn’t have some ulterior purpose. I am not so easily won over, despite whatever you might think about what motivates the scientific mind.”

For a long time Madari didn’t say anything, and Dratshev was convinced he’d finally called Madari’s bluff. Then the man grabbed the second EMP rifle being held by the other armory guard, aimed the weapon downrange and squeezed the trigger. At first nothing happened, but then a moment later the weapon bucked hard against Madari’s shoulder, hard enough for him to cry out with pain, and then the air in front of the barrel shimmered as if under heat. A moment passed and a massive box made of what appeared to be steel or iron blew apart as if had been packed with high explosives.

Dratshev ducked reflexively and then turned his gaze slowly to Madari, who was handing the rifle back to the guard while rubbing his right shoulder.

Madari whirled to face Dratshev, a gleam in his eye. “That is just a small demonstration of what your genius has accomplished, Doctor. It is my intention to sell this technology to whoever will bid the most. In fact, I released the details of the public auction this morning to five countries. We should be hearing from them very shortly.”

“Clearly, I was wrong about you, Mr. Madari,” Dratshev replied. “You’re neither a fake nor an opportunist. You are, quite simply, a lunatic.”

“Perhaps,” Madari said. “But there are other lunatics throughout history who were able to achieve much more than I ever subsume I may. And for now, Dr. Dratshev, I will do this whether I have your cooperation or not. Think about it. You can profit by this—I will provide you the most advanced facilities at your disposal. Even after we auction this current technology, nothing says we have to stop there. With you by my side, we can develop weapons even more powerful and advanced—weapons I can use to equip those in my country who want to see the same thing as I can. Together, we can build the most powerful army on earth!”

“I…I can’t,” Dratshev said even as he knew that he would. Madari had been right about him. “And yet, I must!”

Ishaq Madari smile. “Excellent. Most excellent.”

CHAPTER SIX

Minsk, Belarus

“Mr. McMasters, welcome to Minsk.”

David McCarter shook the hand the woman offered him while the remaining Phoenix Force members looked on.

To have called her anything other than beautiful would’ve been absurd. She had short dark hair, cut pixie-style, liquid-blue eyes and full red lips. The high cheekbones arched gracefully and dipped to soft cheeks with just a hint of dimples at her mouth.

“Pleasure’s mine, Miss—”

“Mariam,” she replied, “but I prefer if you simply call me Mishka. My cover name.”

Just one of her many cover names, actually, although she probably assumed McCarter knew little about her. In the interest of keeping her friendly, the Phoenix Force leader opted not to let on that nothing could be further from the truth.

Muriel Annabel Stanish, age thirty-four, had been a CIA case officer for six years. She’d spent the first two operating Stateside with the documents section specialized in European forgeries. After distinguished service and at least half a dozen requests for transfer, she’d finally been assigned to Minsk, Belarus, to fill a vacancy—one that had occurred under rather dubious circumstances.

“You look rather surprised to see me,” Mishka observed. “I suppose they neglected to tell you I was a woman.”

“Not at all,” McCarter replied.

“Um, I think we’re just surprised,” T. J. Hawkins interjected with a disarming grin, “that we wouldn’t be meeting such a breathtaking young woman as yourself, miss.”

McCarter, teeth clenched and looking out of the corner of his eye, said quickly, “You’ll have to forgive my associate, but he thinks he’s bloody charming when he’s really just being annoying.”

Mishka chuckled and waved it away. “No worries, McMasters. I get that a lot.”

“Do tell,” Encizo said, eyebrows rising.

“More than might you think,” Mishka replied with a grin of her own. She clapped her hands together for emphasis. “But I’m certain you’re tired and would like to go to your hotel. I’ve arranged an entire floor of rooms for you at one of the local hotels. It’s in the downtown area with easy access to all the other areas, but still out of the way of the regular tourist flow. If you’ll follow me?”

As the warriors fell into step behind McCarter, who kept pace at her side, the Phoenix Force leader said, “Seems you thought of everything.”

“Meaning?” she asked.

“Your choice of hotels was…interesting. Just seems you’ve more experience than we were led to believe.”

She shrugged. “It only makes sense, really. I was certain from what I’d been told that you would want to remain inconspicuous and my…experience with the proprietors is that they are discreet.”

“And what do you know of our mission?” McCarter asked as they reached a sporty European-made coupe parked a fair distance from the hangar.

“Not out here,” she said, shaking her head. She pointed to a large custom van nearby. “You can ride with me. The rest will ride with Carnes in the van with your equipment.”

McCarter nodded and gestured for his team to do as instructed. He then squeezed his muscular frame into the small sports car that was fully loaded and boasted genuine leather interior. “Pretty nice ride the Company offers these days.”

“It’s my own,” she said. “Bought and paid for during my layover in Italy. I had it shipped here.”

“Seems like some serious dough to lay out for a CIA case officer.”

If the comment offended Mishka, she didn’t show it—cool under pressure and relatively unemotional. McCarter filed the information for future reference.

“My father ran his own company,” she replied. “Physicist for a defense contractor. That’s partly why they transferred me here.”

“So you were going to tell me how much you knew about our purpose here.”

“Enough that it might surprise you,” Mishka said. “You’re here at my request. Imagine my surprise when the Agency replied less than twenty-four hours later to let me know they were sending you.”

“We don’t work for the CIA.”

Mishka offered a light laugh. “I knew that the moment you stepped off the plane.”

“How?”

“You’re not the typical crew. I’ve been in this business long enough to know the difference between a standard tactical unit and black ops. You’re obviously troubleshooters of a different breed, and that’s fine by me.”

“Glad to hear it,” McCarter replied. “Because we were promised we’d have your full cooperation.”

“And you will.”

“So give me the rundown on what you know to this point.”

Mishka blew out a sigh through pursed lips. “Unfortunately, I don’t have much more intelligence outside of what you probably know.”

“No worries. I’ll start with whatever you give me.”

“Well, I think it goes without saying this city’s crawling with Russian heavies—mostly FSB and maybe a few contacts that were already in-country.”

McCarter nodded. “Agreed. Our people informed us they showed up in force as soon as Dratshev disappeared.”

“Right. From what I’ve heard, his abduction was most likely an inside job.”

“We were told that, as well, but we had a little trouble buying it.”

“Because?”

“Something just doesn’t bloody wash,” McCarter replied with a shrug. “There’s no logic behind staging an abduction of one of their own and then publicizing it.”

“I agree. Although I probably don’t have to point out the FSB has always placed great importance on propaganda. It could be they staged this for the purposes of security.”

“You mean, take Dratshev off the radar and then divert attention by blaming some outside, mysterious party.”

“You have to admit, they’ve done it before,” Mishka said.

“True. But despite their efforts, most competing agencies have been able to see through such attempts with relative ease. This time around the fact an outside party really did manage to kidnap Dratshev has merit.”

“I think you’re right.”

McCarter couldn’t resist a grin. “Glad we’re on the same level.”

“Why?”

“Takes less convincing when I tell you our plan.”

“Which is?”

“I’ll keep the details close to the vest for now, if you don’t mind. But what I will say is that we plan to pick up the FSB’s trail and see where it leads us.”

“Let them do the legwork for you.”

“Right. Plus, if this is a legit snatch, it won’t take the grabbers long to touch base with the Russian government.”

“Unless they have their own purposes for Dratshev.”

“That’s another possibility and I wouldn’t be so naive as to dismiss the theory out of hand.”

“If you—”

“Watch out!”

Mishka had turned to glance at McCarter and missed the dark sedan that rolled alongside the driver’s side of her coupe. They were traveling along a four-lane road that led to the Old Town part of the city.

McCarter reached beneath his coat and quick-drew a Browning Hi-Power from shoulder leather. He aimed at the small window behind Mishka’s seat as the dark sedan swerved toward the coupe and tried to collide with them in an attempt to force her to crash into the cars parked along the road.

Mishka saw McCarter’s reaction and smartly tromped the accelerator to bring the tail of the vehicle up enough to offer McCarter a clear shot at the vehicle.

“Sorry ’bout the window, love!” he shouted before squeezing the trigger twice.

The first bullet shattered the coupe’s window and the second took out the passenger-side window on the sedan. The outline of the man’s face was all McCarter could make out in the dark, but he didn’t have trouble discerning the surprised whites of his eyes. McCarter fired a third shot and the mask disappeared in a crimson spray. The sedan swerved off its intended course as the driver whipped the wheel hard left and put the sedan into a one-eighty.

McCarter whipped a small walkie-talkie from his belt.

“Gray One to team. You got that?”

“Saw it all, Gray One.” Encizo’s voice came back immediately. “Should we pursue?”

“Hell, yes,” McCarter muttered.

McCarter checked the side mirror and saw the van slow suddenly and then begin to swing to the right so Carnes, the driver, could perform a U-turn.

The next minute seemed to happen in slow motion as another sedan approaching from the oncoming lane swerved straight into their lane and picked up speed.

“Shit!” Mishka double-clutched, popping the gearshift to neutral and then reverse as she put her vehicle into a power slide.

The sedan brushed past them, missing by a margin so narrow it made McCarter shudder to think about it. Despite the ferocious attack, Mishka was performing admirably and McCarter felt staunch confidence with her behind the wheel even as his stomach rolled with the turn of the vehicle. In a car with a higher profile the maneuver would’ve caused them to roll but the low center of gravity kept all four wheels on the pavement. Mishka jerked something down and McCarter realized he’d not even noticed she’d managed to somehow engage her parking brake at some point.

The Phoenix Force leader heard an interesting hiss as Mishka disengaged the air-powered brake. That didn’t come standard in any sports car he knew of, which meant she’d had it installed after market. Without being told, Mishka laid in a pursuit course of the sedan that had tried to ram them head-on but the effort proved futile. The sedan had continued on course and smashed into the back of the van carrying the remaining members of Phoenix Force. McCarter felt a ball of rage form in his gut and ordered her to stop short of the sedan on its right flank.

As she braked to a screeching halt, McCarter bailed from the coupe and made a beeline for the van—it had bounced onto the sidewalk and come to a smashing end in one of the storefronts—while he fired at the sedan on the run.

Four men exited the sedan, unaware McCarter had anticipated their moves. As a champion pistol marksman and veteran combatant, McCarter had never missed from that distance, which the first man out of the enemy sedan learned the hard way. Two 9 mm rounds caught McCarter’s target in the chest, puncturing his right lung and driving him backward. The man flopped against the sedan, bounced off and came to rest on the pavement.

The front-seat passenger managed to get clear before McCarter could track him, and opened up with an MP-5K on the run. Bullets buzzed past McCarter’s head like angry hornets, but the gunner hadn’t led the Briton correctly and none of the shots landed.

McCarter made the cover of the van just as Hawkins and Manning burst from the sliding door, both toting weapons from their equipment bags.

“Anyone hurt?” McCarter inquired.

“Bumps and bruises,” Hawkins replied even as Manning was already putting distance between him and his friends.

The Canadian warrior leveled his MP-5 SD6 at the survivors from the sedan and triggered a few bursts from the hip. This variant of the Heckler & Koch SMG had built-in sound suppression so the reports were little more than pops in the muggy night air. Two more of their enemy numbers were reduced, one taking a trio of 9 mm Parabellum rounds to the chest.

Hawkins joined the fray a moment later with his own weapon, identical to Manning’s, spraying a high sustained burst that swept across the hood and blew the driver’s head apart in a mess of blood, bone and gray matter.

The lone survivor popped over the roof a few times and triggered hasty bursts from his assault rifle before jumping into the driver’s seat and tromping the accelerator. The sedan blasted from the scene in a concert of squealing tires and roaring engine accompanied by the smoky aftermath of scorched rubber.

The sounds of battle died away, replaced by the distant two-tone wail of police sirens.

Encizo popped his head out from the open van door. “Driver has a monitor for the secure police bands. He says we’re going to have company in short order.”

McCarter’s expression soured as he looked over the now defunct van. Smoke wisped from the engine compartment and the odor of coolant and oil stung his nostrils. “Looks like your chariot isn’t going anywhere, mate.”

Mishka’s car pulled up before anyone could say more. The young beauty jumped from her coupe. “Store your gear in my trunk. Then split up and rendezvous at the hotel. Carnes can tell you where it’s at. I’ll meet you there.”

McCarter looked at his comrades, who all shrugged.

It was James who said, “Sounds like our best option at this point.”

McCarter nodded and his team went into action, daisy-chaining the gear into the open trunk of Mishka’s coupe. McCarter took the hotel information from Carnes, which he committed to memory before passing it on to Manning.

Through SOP, they already knew how to split up the assignments. Hawkins with James, Encizo with McCarter, and Manning on his own since he spoke French and could easily pass as a tourist. Carnes would accompany James and Hawkins since McCarter had memorized the hotel info and then given the information to Manning.

“We meet in two hours,” McCarter said. “No earlier. That should give all of us enough time to get there and scope it out before we check in. Get into trouble, send the pre-coded distress signal to the Farm. Questions?”

Nobody had any and McCarter nodded. “Good luck, mates. Move out.”

By the time the Minsk police arrived on scene, nobody but the dead remained to greet them.

* * *

NEARLY THREE HOURS passed before all the men of Phoenix Force were reunited in the small, comfortable hotel in the heart of Minsk’s Old Town. The light of dawn spilled around the corners of the heavy drapes drawn across the windows in the room shared by McCarter, Encizo and Hawkins. All team members had arrived without incident, but Mishka had been unexplainably detained—when McCarter questioned her about it she’d simply shrugged him off or changed the subject. McCarter finally gave it a rest and just accepted she’d had her reasons for being late. Mishka had already gone far and above proving her loyalty and McCarter knew he had no cause to mistrust her at this point.

“You brought our weapons?” Encizo asked her.

Mishka shook her head. “Too risky. I decided to leave them at a secure location. At least until the police patrols have thinned.”

“We can’t be without that equipment, ma’am,” Hawkins said.

Mishka blinked. “I promise you, all of your equipment is perfectly safe. The cops are out in force looking for you. It’s better to wait. Trust me, I’ve been here awhile now and I know how things work. You don’t. If any of us were caught with even the pistols we carry now, they could land us in some remote prison for life. We’d have to shoot our way out.”

“Fine,” McCarter agreed. “Let’s get to this attack and see if we can’t figure out how we got bloody compromised. Mishka, you got any idea who those bastards might’ve been?”

“If I had to guess, I’d say FSB.”

Manning raised an eyebrow. “That sounds a little out of left field.”

“I was just thinking the same thing,” McCarter said with a grunt. “If we accept her theory then we got big troubles.”

“Such as?” Mishka inquired.

“Well, for starters,” James said, “someone would’ve had to leak our arrival to the Russians.”

“Right,” Encizo agreed. “And for another, they would’ve had to know who we were, where we’d come in and just about a dozen other details about our mission here. The chances they’d have someone that deep or high inside the CIA is against any odds I’d stake.”

“How do you know the leak isn’t within your own agency?” Mishka asked with a challenging expression.

McCarter snorted. “Nice try, love, but that couldn’t happen. There are only three other people who have any details of our mission parameters. They don’t even store that information in our computers.”

“Which are practically impenetrable, anyway,” James added.

“So where does that leave us?” McCarter asked. He looked around the room. “Anybody?”

Manning cleared his throat and when McCarter nodded, he said, “Let’s assume for the moment the compromise is in the CIA. Chances are pretty good, Mishka, you’ve been here long enough that it’s your cover that’s been blown and not anybody higher up or back home. Our mission orders came practically from your lips to our ears.”

“What are you saying?” Mishka interjected.

“I’m saying that they probably figured out what was happening by keeping their eyes on you. Your apartment here in Minsk is probably bugged, and maybe even your car.”

“Impossible,” she replied. “I sweep both of them on a regular schedule.”

Hawkins shook his head. “Which could well be part of the problem. If you sweep on a schedule, they’d be wise to that, too. All they’d have to do is deactivate the bugs, wait until you completed your sweeps and then reactivate them.”

“So I’ll go sweep them right now,” Mishka said.

McCarter shook his head. “Too dangerous. They still know your vehicle and your movements. They might’ve even traced you here, which means we’re compromised, as well.”

“Not a chance,” she replied. “I didn’t bring my car. After I dropped off the weapons, I returned it to the parking lot across from my apartment. I didn’t want to drive it around with the damage, in case the police noticed and stopped me. I took the first available bus, took another connection, and then walked the rest of the way to be sure I wasn’t followed.”

“Smart and beautiful,” Hawkins said with a wink.

Mishka smiled. “I try. And you’re a player, mister.”

“I try.”

“Axe the cute stuff,” McCarter said. “What we need to do is reevaluate our situation and determine if we’re safe here or if we should change venue.”

“I think it goes without saying we should get out of here anyway,” Manning said. “Just for the sake of caution.”

McCarter nodded. “Fair enough, but I want to think about it for a bit. Meanwhile, let’s get your side arms cleaned up best you can with what’s available while I call the Farm to update them on the situation.”

“What do you want me to do?” Mishka asked.

“Why don’t you and Carnes go stake out the lobby, just to be safe. And find all of the possible alternate exits just in case we have to beat feet in a hurry.”

Mishka nodded before gesturing for Carnes to follow her out.

Once they’d gone, James sidled up next to McCarter and nodded in the direction of the door through which the pair of CIA agents had exited. “Do you trust them?”

McCarter frowned into the secure phone as he dialed the number that would connect them by satellite relay directly to Stony Man Farm using high-speed bursts of heavily encrypted data. “I don’t know. I want to, but…”

“But?”

“I just don’t know.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Major Riley Braden would never have admitted it to anyone, but he didn’t trust David Steinham. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something about the defense contractor just didn’t add up. For one thing, he’d managed to find a way to violate his agreement with Cyrus without actually making it look otherwise. Braden had mentioned this to Cyrus, but his friend and CO had dismissed the idea as ludicrous.

Braden suspected it might have something to do with Cyrus’s fear of losing their contract with Steinham, along with the money that came with it. Braden firmly believed there were other fish in the sea, easier to catch than holding on to the DCDI contract. At the same time, they’d lost a number of good men in a single operation, something that had never happened to Cyrus since starting the company. Braden had worked with Cyrus long enough to know it was partly a matter of professional pride and partly Cyrus’s wish that the deaths of their comrades did not become a vain sacrifice.

It was for this reason Braden agreed to take the mission to Belarus, even though he felt deep down the operation would turn out to be a dud.

Now aboard one of Steinham’s corporate jets, Braden sifted through the intelligence that had come from the DCDI contact Steinham claimed to have inside the country. Among the scant intelligence reports, Braden took particular interest in a section that theorized a special ops unit of the United States government might be dispatched to investigate Dratshev’s disappearance.

All the rest of it had to do with the EMP research Dratshev had supposedly been working on, most of which went over Braden’s head. His specialties were covert military tactics and special operations. He had no expertise in the actual science of such weapons—most of it sounded farfetched and theoretical than anything else. Braden had reached out to his own contacts, as well; who’d informed him those holding the purse strings in Moscow hadn’t exactly been smitten with Dratshev’s work. Braden thought that a most interesting revelation and filed it as highly important if not outright provocative. It also made him wonder if the chance didn’t exist that Dratshev’s progress hadn’t been sabotaged by other elements within his own government. Hadn’t Steinham said he’d procured some of the finest minds on the subject and for five years it had gone nowhere? What did that mean in relationship to Dratshev’s research?

Braden finally pushed the question from his mind. He closed the file folder, leaned back in his seat and rubbed his eyes. For now he’d rest on what he knew and let his subconscious push the pieces around on the board until something fell into place.

Sooner or later, the answer would come to him.

* * *

“ARE YOU SURE you want to drive back to Washington?” Brognola asked.

“Positive, Hal,” Carl Lyons replied.

The Able Team warriors had retrieved all the information they could from Higgs and the data crew at the NSA.

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