LITMIR.BIZ

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shall be free.”

      At the base of the footbridge Osbourne joined the others and all conversation stopped. Staying in tight formation, the group swung around the library, to find an unmarked armored truck in the parking lot, the engine idling softly.

      The two uniformed guards in the front nodded at Osbourne. One raised a mike from the dashboard to speak a single word, then tucked it away again. A few seconds later, heavy bolts could be heard disengaging before the thick rear door of the truck swung ponderously aside. Inside the vehicle there was a squat lead safe bolted to the floor and surrounded by six more CIA agents wearing flak jackets and armed with M-16 carbines. More weapons hung on the metal walls, along with medical kits, metal netting and ABC breathing masks. No chances were being taken this day.

      As Osbourne and his team approached, the six guards assumed a firing stance.

      “Blue skies,” Osbourne said. “You can stand down.”

      At the all-clear signal, the guards moved away from the safe as the courier climbed into the truck. Kneeling on the floor, the plump man nervously wiped a sweaty palm on a leg to dry it first before pressing it to a security pad on top of the box. The indicator lights blinked twice, then the door loudly unlocked to swing aside, revealing several identical briefcases. Placing the item into a numbered slot, the courier closed the safe with a satisfied expression.

      “Done,” he whispered. “It’s finally over.”

      A crackle of static sounded over everybody’s earphones, followed by muffled gunfire.

      “Red alert!” Zalhares shouted. “We have a situation in the drop zone. A police officer is down…shit, Dog is hit! We’re under attack by an Iraqi backup team. We need immediate assistance Eagle! Now, goddammit, right now!”

      Drawing his piece, Osbourne now realized why the constable had been missing. Poor bastard. “We’re on the way, Falcon,” Osbourne said, jumping out of the armored truck. “Let’s move with a purpose, people!”

      Pulling their weapons, the CIA agents poured onto the parking lot, then impatiently waited for the guards to close and lock the armored door. As the agents raced around the library, the strolling civilians started to scream at the sight of armed men running through the park.

      Seconds later the Scion came charging around the other side of the library, their weapons drawn and Zalhares adjusting the preburner on a U.S. Army M-1 flamethrower. Halfway to the armored truck, he crouched against the recoil and pressed the lever on the insulated wand to send out a stream of napalm. The burning lance hit the rear grille of the thick door and sprayed through to fill the vehicle. Covered in flames, the guards and the courier shrieked wildly and dashed around, slamming into the walls and one another in a blind panic to escape. A few moments later the ammunition in the rifles began to cook off from the mounting heat, the hardball ammo ricocheting off the walls in a hellish clamor, cutting short the agonized wails.

      Seated in the front cab, the driver and uniformed guard couldn’t see what was happening on the other side of the steel wall in the rear of the truck, but they could clearly hear the hideous screaming. Grabbing a Remington shotgun from a ceiling mount the uniformed guard racked the slide to chamber a shell as the driver pulled a .357 Magnum pistol and threw open the sliding panel covering the conversation grille. Broiling waves of flame poured instantly into his face, searing his skin and setting his hair on fire. Recoiling in a wordless scream, the driver accidentally discharged his pistol, blowing a hole in the seat. He threw away the weapon to wave his hands at the flames engulfing his head.

      “Jesus Christ!” the other guard cried, jerking backward against the door and raising the shotgun for protection.

      Moving without conscious thought, the burning driver clawed at the handle of the cab door and shoved it open to throw himself outside to try to escape the flames. Tumbling to the cool pavement, the driver beat at the fire with his blistered hands and only vaguely noticed some people coming his way. There was a metallic cough, a flash of pressure, and his pain ended forever.

      BURSTING THROUGH the hedges, Osbourne and his people found the dead Libyans and the constable. But there was no sign of the Scion or anybody else.

      “Son of a bitch, we’ve been tricked!” Osbourne cursed angrily, grabbing his throat mike. “Nest, this is Eagle. Evac, now! Scion may be compromised! Repeat, Zalhares may have turned! Acknowledge!” There was only the soft hiss of background static as a reply.

      “Nest, do you copy!” Osbourne demanded, pushing through the foliage and starting back toward the distant library. He could see a plume of dark smoke rising from behind the building and doubled his speed.

      Police and fire department sirens were growing louder as the CIA operatives circled the library. Tendrils of smoke sailed through the air, which carried an aroma oddly reminiscent of roasted pork. The older agents scowled as they identified the stench of burned human flesh mixed with the telltale reek of napalm.

      The hot wand and pressurized tanks of a flamethrower lay discarded on the pavement. Sprawled nearby were two bodies; the uniformed guard, obviously shot in the head, and what appeared to be the driver, although the face was burned beyond recognition. There was no sign of the armored truck.

      “The bastards got them,” an agent whispered. “Zalhares and his crew stole the entire shipment of Zodiacs!”

      “Kissel, take two men and sweep the neighborhood for that truck or any more bodies,” Osbourne growled, slowly holstering his gun. “I’ll handle Scotland Yard. Wallace, grab a cab and get your ass to the American Embassy and call the White House.”

      “We’ll need top authorization before we can brief the Brits on what’s loose in their city,” the agent replied, buttoning his jacket closed. “If then.”

      “Yeah, I know,” Osbourne said woodenly as squads of police cars raced into the parking lot. “How can we tell anybody that the world just lost a battle in the war on terrorism?”

      CHAPTER ONE

      Aberystywyth, Wales

      An old, dilapidated truck bearing two members of Scion trundled along the cliff road, the vast gray expanse of the Atlantic Ocean spreading in front of them to the distant horizon. No ships were in sight and no commercial jet planes flew overhead. Zalhares hadn’t even seen another car for the past hour, but he still kept a sharp watch on the sky for any sign of a Harrier jump jet. That’s what the British would send, the merc realized, something that could strike from the sky, then land to check the debris. He knew that the CIA would prefer a shoot-on-sight order, but with the Zodiacs in the possession of the Scion that would be far too dangerous. No, the orders would be to contain the merc unit and to call for reinforcements. But Zalhares had already taken steps to counter the event should it occur. Everything was under control, or rather, it would be in just a little while.

      Hours passed as the two people in the battered vehicle bounced along the rough roadway, accompanied by the rattling of chains from the rear of the truck. A squat wooden box roughly the size of an office safe was securely chained in place on top of a thick bed mattress, the price tag still attached.

      “Is this the best you could steal?” Jorgina Mizne muttered from the passenger seat, adjusting the baby blanket covering the 9 mm Uru submachine gun cradled in her arms.

      “It will suffice,” Zalhares said, braking in the middle of the road to check the hand-drawn map. Ah, the turn was over there. Aberystywyth Avenue. Good.

      “Welsh, ha! And I thought English was spelled oddly.” Mizne snorted in amusement.

      “The English think of the Welsh the same way we do Bolivians,” Zalhares said, tucking away the map. “Idiot cousins who should not be allowed to play with sharp things.”

      She flashed a predator smile. “Then they will not work well together to find us? Excellent.”

      “It is why I chose here,” he said, shifting gears and starting forward.

      Maneuvering

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