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  Curling his finger around the Barrett’s trigger, Grimaldi took up the slack, exhaled about half the contents of his lungs, and squeezed off a shot. The slug drilled into the Iranian’s back, snapping his spine before it exploded out the front of his chest in a spray of crimson and gore.

  The second guy had knelt next to Saied and was looping his arms underneath the MEK fighter’s arms when the first shot rang out. The soldier shoved Saied away, rose in a crouch, his hand scrambling for the grip of the Kalashnikov rifle while his eyes swept the surroundings for a target.

  Grimaldi swung the Barrett’s muzzle toward the other hardman, aimed for the center mass and triggered the big gun. The round slammed into the man’s shoulder, the impact spinning him 180 degrees as he corkscrewed to the ground, blood springing from his shoulder. The guy was writhing on the ground, prompting Grimaldi to line up another shot at the man’s torso. The round punched through the guy’s rib cage and his body jerked up once before it went still.

  The roar of another large-bore round was dying down. He looked in the direction of the gate and saw that James had taken down two of the guards. A third was crouched at the rear of the guard shack and was sweeping the muzzle of his Kalashnikov around, in tandem with his eyes, as he sought the source of the gunshots that had taken out four of his comrades.

  “I’ve got this one,” Grimaldi said into his throat mike.

  Locking the guy in his sights, he caressed the trigger. The rifle thundered and the man’s head disappeared in a spray of red.

  “Front door’s open,” Grimaldi said.

  * * *

  MANNING SPRINTED FOR the stretch of fence that ran along the rear of the Circle’s facility. Encizo, lying prone on the ground, covered his teammate with his M-4 rifle. Manning guessed the fence stood well over ten feet high. Razor wire ran along the top edge of the fence.

  Once the demolitions expert reached the barrier, he dropped into a crouch and studied his surroundings for threats. Encizo uncoiled from the ground and sprinted to Manning’s position and knelt next to him.

  A couple dozen yards from the fence stood a prefabricated air traffic control tower. The windows of the elevated control room overlooked the whole property. An airstrip ran along the front of the tower. The tower’s roof bristled with radio antennae and satellite dishes. An unmarked military helicopter sat on a patch of asphalt north of the tower.

  Once the first big-bore rifle shot shattered the silence, the chatter of submachine gunfire erupted in response, only to again be sporadically drowned out by more .50-caliber rounds.

  Manning brought around a pair of wire cutters and began working on the fence, while Encizo watched over both of them. With the gunfire up front, the Cuban hoped most of the gunners would press toward the gates. That would buy Manning and him enough time to penetrate the fence so they could undertake their respective tasks.

  Things seemed to be unfolding that way for maybe thirty seconds. Manning had just finished cutting a long vertical line through the fence when a Kalashnikov-wielding man surged out from the tower’s control room and opened fire. The first wave of gunfire went wide and slapped into the hard-packed earth a few yards behind the Phoenix Force commandos.

  Encizo whipped the M-4 toward the shooter and squeezed off a fast burst. The bullets sparked against the catwalk railing and careened away. Encizo’s opponent fired another burst that pounded into the ground just in front of their feet. Manning by now had dropped the wire cutters and was scrambling for his own rifle. The M-4 in Encizo’s hands spit a more sustained burst and some of the rounds flew at upward angles into the torso of the shooter. The guy suddenly seized up, staggered and pitched forward. His body folded over the railing before his weight dragged him over the side and he plummeted headfirst to the ground.

  The brief gun battle earned the Stony Man commandos more unwanted attention.

  Three more gunners surged from behind the communications building. They moved in a staggered line, their weapons spitting muzzle-flashes and bullets. Another shooter hung back, crouched next to one corner of the building and squeezed off more autofire. Rounds pounded into the ground or whistled just past the ears of Encizo and Manning.

  The Cuban darted away from his teammate. Running along the fence, he snapped off quick bursts at the line of gunners moving in their direction. Manning took his cue and sprinted in the other direction, his own weapon firing. If nothing else, they’d split the attention of their attackers and make it more difficult for the Iranians to take them out as a single target.

  At least two of the shooters were tracking on Encizo and he was feeling the heat. Bullets were drilling into the ground around him as he ran in a zigzag pattern.

  He knew his luck would run out any second. He twisted at the waist, angled the M-4 up and fired the grenade launcher on the run. A fragmentation round hissed out of the tube, arced over the fence and sent the shooters scrambling as it descended. When it hit the ground, it unleashed an explosion that rent the air, sending swarms of razor-sharp shrapnel flying in all directions. The bits of metal shredded clothing and chewed into the flesh of the fleeing Iranian gunners. The concussive force of the rounds knocked them from their feet and sent their ravaged bodies crashing to the ground.

  The communications building had shielded the fourth gunner. He came around the building, his assault rifle looking for a target. Manning spotted him first and hosed the guy down with a torrent of autofire from his M-4.

  Several tense seconds passed as they waited for more hardmen to show up. When none came, Manning located the wire cutters, returned to the fence and finished the hole he’d been cutting before the gunfight had erupted. Once he finished, he looked up at Encizo who gestured with the barrel of his M-4 to go ahead through the opening. Manning squeezed his big frame through the hole. Once he was on the other side, he took up his rifle and watched for any more Iranian soldiers or intelligence agents. Gunfire crackled elsewhere and Manning figured the other Phoenix Force warriors still were fighting.

  Manning rose to his full height, flashed his old friend a thumbs-up and headed for the communications building.

  Encizo ran for the nearest building. The intelligence they had was sparse, but it was believed to be a barracks or a mess hall. He glided along the side of the building, using it to cover his approach. His real target was the building they believed housed the control center for the UAV. When he reached the edge of the building, he knelt and chanced a look around the corner.

  Like the other buildings here, the control center was a stubby concrete-block building. A heavyset guard, his round face covered with a thick, black beard, stood next to the door. A second man was crouched on top of the building.

  Encizo raised the M-4 to his shoulder, drew a bead on the guy on the roof and curled his finger around the trigger. Just as he prepared to squeeze it, he heard the scuff of a shoe sole striking against the ground.

  He spun around and spotted an Iranian coming up on his six. The guard clasped a large pistol in both hands and was aiming it at Encizo’s head.

  * * *

  ENCIZO THREW HIMSELF to the right. The M-4 rattled out a quick volley of rounds that drilled into the hardman’s chest. By the time the Cuban warrior struck the ground, his attacker had fallen. At the same time, gunshots erupted at Encizo’s six as the shooters at the control center took advantage of their reprieve from the reaper.

  Encizo rolled onto his back. Bullets sliced through the air inches above him as his opponents began unloading their weapons at him. He dragged his M-4 in a horizontal arc, discharging the weapon at the shooters. If nothing else, he hoped the barrage would send them to ground and buy him a second of breathing room. Encizo saw the door guard spin on his heel and sprint for a black pickup parked a few yards from the building. The man on the roof flattened himself and waited for the storm of lead to pass.

  Encizo rolled onto his feet and
sprinted for the barracks, legs pumping furiously to propel him forward. The two guards had begun to empty their weapons in his direction. Bullets chewed up the ground as the shooters tried to burn Encizo down with a twin attack.

  Picking up speed as he closed in on the barracks, he fired the M-4 at a window and the glass pane disintegrated. With fluid movements, he bent at the knees and launched himself through the opening. Bullets whizzed through the window, tugging at his clothes and whistling past an ear.

  * * *

  ENCIZO STRUCK THE ground, grunted as his chest and stomach collided with the concrete floor, rolled and came up in a crouch. He looked around and knew he was indeed in a barracks—an empty one, fortunately.

  It was a long, open room populated by several beds. He noticed most of the beds were made. But blankets, sheets and pillows scattered on the floor suggested some of the guards had been asleep when Phoenix Force first attacked. Lockers lined a wall; doors on a couple of them hung open and stray pieces of clothing lay in front of them, pulled out as the sleeping soldiers hurriedly dressed for battle.

  Encizo noticed the gunfire outside the barracks had stopped. His scowl deepened. That meant the guards who’d just been shooting at him were probably closing in on the building. Or they assumed he was trapped and they were waiting for reinforcements.

  He was up and moving to the nearest window, the one he’d just thrown himself through. He wanted to have a look and assess what was happening outside. He wished he had one of the small barbell-shaped robots with built-in cameras to throw out. Or at least a stick with a mirror. As it was, he’d just have to risk a glance out the window and hope he didn’t catch a bullet in the face.

  Hell of a plan.

  As he drew up on the window, glass shards crunched softly under his feet. Autofire crackled outside the building. He tensed for an instant before realizing that it was coming from somewhere else in the compound.

  He broke open his grenade launcher, fed a high-explosive round into it and snapped the launcher closed as he reached the wall below the window. He rose slowly from his crouch, back brushing against the wall. When he reached his full height, he peered around the window frame in time to see one guy, his body hunched low, sneaking toward the window. Encizo poked the M-4’s barrel through the window and squeezed off a quick burst. The murderous fusillade ripped open a ragged line in the man’s throat and jaw, a pained cry dying inside him as his body crashed to the ground.

  As the guy wilted to the ground, more shots rang out from behind him. The torrent of slugs lashed the building’s exterior. A few lanced through the window and buzzed past Encizo’s face as he jerked back from view.

  In the same instant something thudded against the door. It exploded inward, slapped the wall and bounced off it. Encizo steeled himself. Experience told him that a flash-bang grenade may come rolling into the room. And, while he’d trained to handle exposure to them, he first needed to be ready for one when it flew through the door.

  Instead a behemoth of a man rolled through the door. The AK-47 the giant clutched against his body would have looked comical if he wasn’t sporting such a murderous look. The guy was pissed, probably murderously angry, and making no attempt to hide it.

  Encizo helped out by stroking the trigger of his M-4. The burst from the little rifle tore into the man’s face as he took a third step into the barracks. A second guard was dumb enough to bull his way through the doorway after the first guy went down. Encizo spared the guard the facial, but instead ventilated his chest.

  Reloading his rifle, Encizo locked the muzzle on the door and took a couple of steps toward it.

  Something thudded against the floor behind him.

  Encizo whipped his head in the direction of the sound. He spotted an egg-shaped metal object bouncing across the floor. Grenade! And he had maybe two seconds before it exploded.

  He turned toward the door and surged forward. It was exactly the move his attackers would expect. It also was the only option at hand. So he was going to sprint like a scalded cat for the door.

  His legs pumped furiously, propelling him across the floor. His heart, fueled by fear and adrenaline, thudded hard in his chest. It seemed like forever before he reached the exit. He threw himself through the door and rolled across the ground, putting precious distance between him and the blast.

  The concrete-block exterior of the building muffled the initial blast only slightly. Windows shattered and shards of glass slashed their way through the air.

  As the blast died down, Encizo pulled himself from the ground, eyes searching for other threats. His ears were ringing. His elbows and knees, which had taken the brunt of the impact when he struck the ground, hurt like hell. He came around the building in time to encounter a hardman peering in the side window, apparently looking for the warrior.

  Encizo cleared his throat. The guy spun in his direction. He was bringing up his Kalashnikov, ready to fire it with one hand at the Cuban.

  Encizo’s M-4 chugged out a fast burst. The 5.56 mm rounds slammed into the thug, rent flesh, drilled through bone and sent him tumbling backward.

  Encizo spun on his heel and headed for the control center.

  * * *

  BOUDRI, SEATED IN the control room, dragged a forearm over his brow to wipe away the sweat. He knew the whole mission had gone to hell. He’d thrown everybody he had at the Americans, but they’d kept coming.

  At this point he had one last option. He stared at the monitors and double-checked the drone’s position. He’d hoped to fire missiles from the craft, to show the Americans what it was capable of. Unfortunately he was running out of time. Time to switch to the contingency plan, which was less flashy but equally deadly.

  Fingers racing over the keyboard, he punched in the autopilot program that would crash the drone directly into the Embassy. If he destroyed this symbol of American aggression and killed some of its people, he’d still consider it a victory.

  Once the codes were entered, he rose from his chair and headed for the door. He needed to buy some time. He grabbed an AK-47 that was leaning against the wall, aimed it at the computer stations, squeezed the trigger and hosed down his workstation with bullets. The bullets crashed through the monitors and chewed through the plastic computer towers. Muzzle-flashes lit the room with strobelike effect. Smoke filled the air, stinging his eyes.

  When he’d destroyed the last piece of equipment, he set the AK on a nearby table, pulled a Makarov from his hip, pushed the barrel into his mouth and squeezed the trigger.

  * * *

  ENCIZO THUMBED A switch on the detonator and was rewarded with the thunderous peal of C-4 charges. The explosions tore the lock from the control center door and caused it to swing open.

  Pushing through the smoke, he stepped into the small building and swore. A man lay curled up on the floor, most of his head missing. A Makarov lay on the floor near him, several inches from his hand. Brash shell casings were spread all over the floor.

  Encizo surveyed the equipment inside and saw that it all had been ruined, rent by bullets.

  There was no way they could try to control the UAV from here. It was up to McCarter and Hawkins to stop it now.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Baghdad, Iraq

  Muqtada al-Abuddin stood in front of his bedroom mirror, tightened the knot of his necktie and thanked his God for the chance to make history. With the fingertips of his right hand, he smoothed the silken fabric of the tie, studied his freshly shaved features and knew a freedom fighter was looking back at him. He wasn’t sure how the day was to end for him, whether he’d wind up a conquering hero or a martyr. Regardless, he was at peace with the outcome.

  He turned away from the mirror and crossed the room to where his suit jacket was folded over the back of a wooden chair. While he shrugged on the jacket, his mind traveled back to the day before, when he’d me
t with some of his brothers to film his video. In the already stifling hot warehouse, he’d sat under a bank of lights and read his statement, cursing the U.S. for its presence in Iraq and calling on his Shiite brothers to rise up and fight against the crusaders. At any other time, he knew the Americans would ignore such rants. After today, though, they’d listen to his every word, study his every gesture and wonder how he’d succeeded.

  He checked his watch and realized he was late. Exiting his bedroom, he made his way through his cramped apartment to the front door. The Interior Ministry was sending a car to pick him up and shuttle him to the Embassy. He didn’t want to keep them waiting. He was always punctual, sometimes obsessively so. Being late today could make his superiors suspicious. He’d spent untold hours working hard to gain their trust. Maybe he was being overly cautious, but he didn’t want to do anything that’d draw suspicion.

  When he walked outside his apartment building, he didn’t see the car. Good. The sun already was hot and he immediately felt sweat gather underneath his shirt. He guessed it might be one of the last times he’d feel the sun warm his scalp and shoulders. Deciding that he should enjoy it while he could, he shut his eyes and stared directly at it, marveling at its intensity.

  Al-Abuddin had been born in Baghdad, the son of an Iraqi father and an Iranian mother, both Shiites. He’d been raised in the Thawra district of Baghdad, also known as Sadr City, in one of the tenements there. When Muqtada was ten, his father’d had a stroke, which forced his family to move to Tehran, to live with his grandparents. In Iraq, under the grinding poverty in Sadr City, his parents had focused much of their anger at Saddam Hussein. Once they moved to Iran, however, his grandfather and his friends had spent hours railing against the deposed shah and against the Americans who’d supported his regime. The men in his life had taught him early that the Americans were the cause of ills not just in Iran, but throughout the Middle East.