LITMIR.BIZ

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as he backed away from another snapping fist, the Briton’s footing was certain.

      The sudden eruption of martial arts combat on the sidewalk made people scatter, which thankfully allowed McCarter some breathing room. He didn’t have to worry about bystanders wandering into the melee and becoming injured. McCarter slap-deflected another assault, and went on the attack, whipping his elbow around to catch his foe in the face. With both of their forward momentum combined, McCarter felt his humerus spark with the jolt of “funny bone” reactions, but was rewarded with his opponent staggering backward.

      McCarter kept on the attack, only to catch a snap kick that barked off his shin, knocking the support from beneath him. The Briton staggered to his other foot to maintain his balance, spearing at the attacker with a knife hand. Fingernails gouged at forehead, bushy eyebrows and down into the enemy’s eye, McCarter making as much use of his increased reach as he could. Even as that raking slash connected, a powerful hammer struck him in his exposed side.

      In his lunge, McCarter had left himself open. Ordinarily such a mistake would have come and gone too quickly for an opponent to take advantage. This time, however, the punch knocked the wind from the Phoenix Force commander and he stumbled to one knee. The squat attacker rubbed his eyes across his forearm, blinking blood away that seeped from his torn skin. The club-fisted warrior lunged in, but McCarter kicked off with all of his strength, lunging headfirst into his foe’s stomach. Fists that had been aimed for his head or neck instead fell upon his heavily muscled back and ribs. The impacts were painful, but not fatal, while McCarter lifted the killer off his stubby legs.

      The Briton hooked the back of his foe’s thighs and then allowed himself to topple forward, wrenching the assassin down to the sidewalk. The man released a pained grunt before his knees wrenched upward, dislodging McCarter from his position. The Phoenix commander hammered off a side punch, unable to target his foe’s kidneys, but the body blow went further toward emptying the bald attacker’s lungs.

      McCarter fired off a second punch, striking below his enemy’s belt buckle, the blow stabbing deep into the man’s groin muscles. He cupped his hand over the assassin’s knee and pushed it out hard to the side, exposing the soft inner crease that McCarter wailed a second punch into, this time aiming for the inner thigh to disrupt the femoral artery. His foe wailed in pain when that blow connected, but McCarter was not through. The Briton tangled his arm with the attacker’s lower leg, then wrenched hard.

      The bald little fighter’s knee popped with an ugly sound, driving his voice into a higher octave of pain. Twisting his ankle forced the guy to flop to his stomach. This wasn’t a mixed martial arts ring fight. There would be no tapping out. McCarter slammed the guy in the kidney with everything he still had in the tank. With that final chop, there wasn’t any sign of further violence from his foe.

      McCarter tested his weight on the kicked leg and felt lucky that it had merely been a glancing kick. There was no seeming fracture, and he could move his foot. That was more than his ambusher could say.

      The Phoenix leader grabbed him up by his collar. As soon as McCarter had him ready to move, Gary Manning brought his minivan to the curb, honking the horn.

      With a hearty heave, he slammed the bald, club-fisted assassin into the back of the van, then climbed in and slid the side door shut.

      “I thought you would have had this one done long before I got here,” Manning quipped.

      McCarter shrugged. “I played it out because I know how much of a bitch Hong Kong traffic is.”

      Manning looked over his shoulder at McCarter. Even in the dim interior of the van, he could see the Briton had been through a hell of a fight. The Phoenix commander cinched the guy’s wrists together behind his back with cable ties, more than one just to make certain the restraints would hold the thick-shouldered killer.

      The thug looked up from the floor at the two men, and McCarter rested the sole of his boot against his throat.

      “Gettin’ yer throat stepped on is a slow, ugly way to die,” McCarter growled. “You might have a chance not to die if you sit still.”

      “Leg.” The man spoke. The word was too short for any hint of accent to arise, but McCarter looked more closely at his appearance, pulling out his pocket flashlight and his personal cell device. With a click of the button, the commander had his prisoner’s photograph taken. A few motions with his thumb and the photograph was on its way to Stony Man Farm.

      “I know your pin took a twistin’. I did it, mate,” McCarter told the prisoner. “You going to tell me who you are or where you came from?”

      “Eat the dicks.” The attacker spit.

      McCarter sighed. “Then just lay there and shut up.” To emphasize his point, the Phoenix Force leader pulled the revolver from his jacket pocket and leveled it at the man’s face.

      “Only a .22,” the prisoner said. “It’ll roll right off my skull.”

      McCarter smirked. “But it’ll take out both of your eyes and mutilate your face. I’ll leave plenty for you to talk with, but you’ll be blind and hideous for the rest of your miserable existence.”

      That quieted the assassin.

      Now to find out how Blancanales was doing with his hunt.

      * * *

      THE BRUISERS GREW closer to Rosario Blancanales as he leaned heavily on his cane. They regarded him with stony, hate-filled glares. Both were taller than Blancanales, and seemed to have been chosen for the sake of the width of their shoulders and thickness of their limbs. That didn’t mean they didn’t possess skill, but Blancanales was hedging his bets on keeping them mentally disarmed. As he stood, using the cane as a crutch, and dressed in loose, baggy clothing, he tried to cast the image of an old man trying to play a young man’s game.

      Both of them were European, possessing Slavic features. At least they were smart enough not to wear sunglasses at night, but now, the Able Team veteran was on the alert that these two guys could be so much more than just bags of cement with fists.

      “Gentlemen?” Blancanales greeted them as they got within a few yards of him. “I’m afraid you found me out.”

      Neither spoke as he scanned Statue Square, the park where Blancanales had been observing the Hong Kong cenotaph. They were making certain they hadn’t been drawn into a trap with human bait. This spread-out tourist attraction would provide plenty of places for Blancanales’s backup to hide and there were rooftops that could be used for sniper overwatch.

      One of the men had yellow scrub for hair. The other, with a rust-colored scouring pad for his top, Blancanales noted, stepped right up to him and looked down upon him.

      “Your friend, he will not be speaking to you again,” Blondie said.

      Blancanales looked down, sighing. “He was a good man.”

      “We will need to ask you some questions.” Blondie’s big hand wrapped around Blancanales’s shoulder and squeezed hard. Those fingers, thick as sausages, clamped down with painful precision, making Blancanales stand straighter, no acting required to twist his features into agony. The blond Russian reached down to take away Blancanales’s fighting cane.

      You underestimated them, Blancanales thought the moment before he slashed the hardwood cane against the side of his oppressor’s knee. Through his knowledge of human anatomy and his years of not only training but field experience with the fighting stick, the simple slice suddenly toppled the brawny Russian, forcing him to release the Able Team veteran’s shoulder.

      Blancanales stepped back, already feeling the bruises forming from the monstrous claw that had threatened to crush his shoulder joint. He whipped the cane up and was ready to destroy the blond man’s face when Red lurched toward him, moving with all the power and speed of a charging buffalo.

      Blancanales threw himself aside as 250 pounds of freckled muscle surged past him, breaths and ponderous footfalls making him sound like a locomotive. The hurt Russian grit his teeth and sprung off his remaining leg, fingers

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