LITMIR.BIZ

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smoke.

      “You been listening to me, Bubba? I don’t make speeches just to hear myself talk.”

      “You had me fooled,” the other man said. His accent was British, hard-edged, and Regan became aware that he wasn’t dealing with a novice. “Let’s stop buggering about, Regan. Neither of us is here for the beer—and I can see why after tasting it. We arranged a deal. Why don’t we cut to the chase so I can move on and you can count your money. Two weeks in this bloody place is playing hell with my social life.”

      “You can provide me with the ordnance I need? Anything from handguns to rocket launchers?”

      “And everything in between.”

      Regan rubbed his stubbled chin. He glanced over the Briton’s shoulder, just to make sure his two bodyguards were still in place. The pair sat at a table near the door, doing nothing except making their beer last as long as possible.

      “Understand what I’m going to say next, Bubba. It isn’t that I don’t trust you, but the people I’m brokering this deal for are fussy. You know what I’m sayin’?”

      “They want to see I’m not peddling you a load of scrap iron?”

      Regan spread his hands. “You show up hawking a cargo of weapons. So you say. How do I know you ain’t screwin’ me around?”

      The Briton nodded.

      “I guess with the kind of money they’re offering they have a right to see the merchandise.”

      “So it’s no problem?”

      “No.”

      “How soon can you show me samples?”

      “Boat is standing by. I can pick up what we need and have it here later tonight. Your warehouse?”

      Regan nodded, smiled and picked up his beer.

      “Four a.m. I’ll bring along my client. Let him check the stuff out. If everything is okay, we can complete by tomorrow evening. Just remember he’ll want the full shipment up front before he hands over any cash.”

      The Briton stood. “I’ll go and get my people working on it.” He dropped a folded paper onto the table. “My hotel and room number. Give me a call if anything crops up.”

      As soon as the Briton had left the bar, Regan beckoned to his men. They came to his table.

      “Follow him. Let’s see if he’s who he says. I don’t want this deal screwing up.”

      “Don’t you trust him?”

      Regan smiled, scrubbing at his unshaven jaw. “I don’t trust anyone.”

      One of the bodyguards grinned. “You trust us.”

      “Do I? Who the fuck ever said that, Bubba?”

      THE BRITON LEFT the bar and made his way along the street. It was already dark. The night warm and sticky. He took his time, knowing full well that Regan would have him followed. It was what he would have done in Regan’s place. He returned to his hotel, collected his key and went directly to his room. Inside he crossed to the window overlooking the street and saw one of Regan’s bodyguards lounging against a storefront on the far side, half hidden in shadow. The man was lighting a cigarette and trying to look as though he belonged. He failed badly. No matter how casual his attitude, he still identified himself as an overmuscled hardman, even down to the bulge where his too-tight jacket fitted over the shoulder-holstered gun he was carrying. The other man had obviously gone into the hotel and was, even now, probably paying the desk clerk to take a look at the Briton’s details in the guest register.

      George Reese, British National. Home address, London.

      That was what it said in the register. If a deeper probe into Reese’s background was carried out, his background in dubious operations would show. Suspected of involvement in arms smuggling, some drug dealing. His sphere of operations would catalog deals in the Middle East, Asia, South and Central America. George Reese, though traceable if anyone wanted to follow through, was in fact a totally fictitious character who only existed in the computer files at Stony Man Farm, Virginia, U.S.A. Any requests for information on the character would be routed through to Stony Man, where his fictitious profile would be accessible to any tracer. George Reese was nothing more than a cover for one of the Phoenix Force operatives on this particular mission.

      David McCarter.

      TURNING BACK from the window, McCarter took off his jacket and tossed it onto the bed, went to the dresser and picked up a pack of Player’s cigarettes. He needed one to take away the taste of the tobacco he had purchased from the hotel bar. It was rough, running a close second to the home-brewed beer they sold in the area. He lit the cigarette and took a long draw, sighing with relief.

      He took a cell phone from his pocket and hit a speed-dial number. When his call was answered, McCarter asked, “Did you pick me up?”

      Calvin James affirmed his query.

      “We trailed you back to the hotel. Watched one guy go in while the other stood across the street. Hey, your first guy just came back out. He’s crossing to meet the other one.”

      “Let’s hope they bought my biography.”

      “Hell, these guys don’t exactly look like they work for the Oxford English Dictionary.”

      “You and T.J. follow them. See where they go. Who they meet. Call me if anything happens we need to know about.”

      McCarter broke the connection, waited a couple of minutes, then made another call. This time it was to Gary Manning and Rafael Encizo. They were on board the sixty-foot motor vessel anchored off Santa Lorca, along with the cargo Phoenix Force was offering for sale to Regan.

      “I did my deal with Regan,” McCarter told Manning when the Canadian answered his call.

      “And?”

      “I show him samples. Early morning call. Four a.m.”

      “Okay. Let’s hope he brings his buyer along. If he doesn’t, we’ve come a long way and set this deal up for nothing.”

      “Took our pessimistic pill this morning, did we?”

      “You have to admit this has been a hell of a long shot from the word go.”

      “So? We’ve worked thinner operations before.”

      “Yeah? This one is so thin Stevie Wonder could see through it.”

      “Bugger me, is that Canadian humor I hear?”

      Manning chuckled softly. “I’ll see you later.”

      McCarter glanced at his watch. A long time to go before he made his rendezvous with Regan. He figured to allow himself a couple of hours to get to the boat, pick up the samples and get them to the dock area where Regan’s warehouse stood. Until then he had little to do, so he decided to relax. If anything cropped up, the others would let him know. James and Hawkins were keeping in the background, acting as shadows to cover McCarter, without showing themselves to Regan or his men.

      McCarter sauntered down to the hotel bar and asked the man behind the counter if he had any chilled Coke. To his surprise the barman produced cold bottles from a cooler. The Briton took half a dozen and climbed the stairs back to his room a relatively happy man. He closed the door and settled down on the bed, switching on the TV set. It was lucky he had the Coke. It helped to ease the pain of watching old U.S. series dubbed in Spanish. He did some channel hopping and came across three Western series, yet another rerun of Star Trek, and ended up watching Mannix, with every character mouthing out-of-sync Spanish.

      McCarter watched the episode, through. He smoked three more cigarettes and downed two bottles of Coke. He was feeling better. He switched off the TV, eased his long frame off the bed and crossed to the window. It was quiet down below. The Briton spent a few minutes at the window, letting the faint breeze cool him. He was about to turn away when he picked up a sound from the

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