Deadly Payload. Don Pendleton

      H ERMANN “G ADGETS ” S CHWARZ was no stranger to Central America, and he was no stranger to the morass of its constant threats and violence. Going over the files that described the evidence of the Panama assault, he tried to gain the measure of who they were up against this time out. In the past, the warriors of Stony Man Farm had battled all manner of threats in the canal nation, from renegade secret policemen who killed for their fascist beliefs to Chinese espionage agents trying to gain control of the canal to drug dealers who had flourished under the former dictator. Often, multiple parties entwined, and even forces theoretically on the same side, like Communist rebels and the Red Chinese government, were at odds against each other. Then again, whenever Able Team went south of the border, it was never simple and easy.

      “Never a lack of targets on these operations,” Carl Lyons said. “Shoot in any direction and you’ll hit a bad guy.”

      “Just the way you like it,” Schwarz replied sardonically, putting the file away. “Simple and bloody.”

      Lyons grunted. “If I wanted to fuss over geopolitics, I’d have joined Phoenix Force.”

      Rosario Blancanales, fondly known as Pol, looked back at the pair from the balcony and sighed. “As if a caveman like you could run with that bunch.”

      “I am a pretty good detective, you know,” Lyons responded. He looked at the list of murdered civilians, his heavy brow furrowed. “It could have been an assassination attempt.”

      “But making it look like the U.S. did it?” Schwarz asked.

      “Well, the Venezuelan government has no love for our leadership in Washington,” Lyons replied.

      “Leadership in Wonderland?” Schwarz asked.

      “Well, you know what I mean,” Lyons returned. “But no one on the list of the dead fits in with people who’d have pissed off the head Communists in Caracas.”

      “Just women and children,” Schwarz said. “Killed to smear America’s name across the headlines in innocent blood.”

      Lyons shrugged. “The papers are already full of the U.S. being bloodthirsty brutes for Iraq. Like we needed any more vilification?”

      Blancanales cocked an eyebrow.

      “Sorry,” Lyons said. “That last caveman comment got me breaking out my five-dollar words.”

      Blancanales grinned, but the smile didn’t last long. “But why UAVs?”

      “It has to be linked to the mess Phoenix is investigating over in Lebanon,” Schwarz said. “And don’t forget, we’ve had our own encounters with rogue drones in the past.”

      “The Farm never did figure out who supplied that Egyptian general with so many Predators,” Blancanales answered. “This might be more of the same.”

      Lyons frowned, “Then we can find out who’s behind it and shut it all down.”

      “Before they start a global war,” Schwarz mentioned. He looked at the files on the attack. “We just need to figure out where the drones launched from. Maybe then we could learn who made them and work our way up the food chain.”

      He pored over detailed photographs of the wrecked unmanned drones that had hit the crowd at the consulate. Nothing identifiable had survived the crash of the second, and the AT-4 rocket had blasted everything to garbage.

      “Nothing on the technology front?” Blancanales asked.

      “Bulk, cheap Chinese electronics, rewired to handle the demands of duplicating Predator UAV technology. Some brilliant improvisation, but no evidence of who put it together,” Schwarz said. He shook his head. “Untraceable.”

      “Nothing is untraceable,” Lyons retorted. “We’ll find a handle. And when we do, we’ll twist until we get some answers.”

      There was a knock at the door and all three Able warriors’ hands fell to the grips of their holstered handguns. Lyons answered the door and admitted their contact, Susana Arquillo. She was a CIA field agent assigned to Panama. Her skin was darkened and bronzed by the near equatorial sun. Her hair had been long and dark in her file photograph, but in person, it was trimmed short and pulled back into a tight bun. A few strands of white feathered through it to make it seem lighter. Arquillo’s full, lush lips parted in a smile.

      “Carl Ryder?” she asked.

      “That’s me,” Lyons said.

      “And you can confirm who I am?” Arquillo asked.

      “Gadgets, run her prints,” Lyons told Schwarz. “If you’re not who you’re supposed to be…”

      Arquillo’s eyes dropped to the rubber Pachmayer grips poking out of Lyons’s waistband. “I won’t be walking out of here. But what if I’m packing explosives?”

      Lyons looked her over, hard blue eyes scanning the way her jeans hugged her curvaceous hips. Her blouse hung, unbuttoned and tied together at the bottom, a dark red tank top constraining her full breasts. His hand patted around her waist and found her compact 9 mm Glock on one side and a tiny .38 Special tucked away on the other. “I don’t think you could be hiding too much under there.”

      Arquillo was relatively tall, five foot nine, and athletically built. She cocked an eyebrow as she pressed her fingertips to the flat scan plate Schwarz held out for her. “Ever hear of a charger?”

      “You don’t strike me as the kind of woman who’d want to go out with an eighth of a stick of C-4 detonating in her ass,” Lyons said.

      “Besides,” Blancanales added, holding up a portable “sniffer.” “This thing would have smelled explosive residue on you.”

      “Thorough,” Arquillo noted.

      “She’s clean,” Schwarz declared.

       CHAPTER TWO

      Gary Manning observed the unknown group on the beach, ignoring the salt drying and congealing with sand in his soaked BDUs. There would be time to change into fresh clothing later, and it was a minor discomfort. The group’s activity was clearer now from their position on the beach. It was a work crew, unloading containers from transport trucks onto a beached barge. His lips drew into a tight line.

      “Unmarked containers,” he said. “But the shape is unmistakable.”

      “UAV transport crating,” David McCarter answered as he lowered his binoculars. “We lucked out here.”

      “Except, if we were lucky, we would have a Zodiac raft to shadow the barge to its destination,” Manning said.

      “I’ll contact the Farm,” McCarter suggested. “It’ll be a breach of radio discipline, but they can keep an eye on the craft while we continue our inland push.”

      “We’re still going into Lebanon?” Hawkins asked.

      “These things were delivered somewhere. And we still have to touch base with Unit 777 and the Mossad. They’ve been noticing some unusual activity in Lebanon.”

      “UFO sightings,” Calvin James muttered. “If they weren’t one of the crack units in the region, I’d have thought they’d gone nuts.”

      “Unidentified aircraft aren’t always spawned by little green men, hermano ,” Rafael Encizo chided his partner. “And some of those UFOs might have dropped chemical weapons into Syria. I’d still like to keep a tail on them.”

      McCarter lowered the satellite radio. “Barb has a Keyhole watching the barge. The Farm isn’t going to lose track of it.”

      James nodded. “Which means we can concentrate on keeping up with the trucks.”

      “Not necessarily,” Manning interjected. McCarter and James regarded their partner quizzically as the brawny Canadian observed the convoy through his sniper scope. “The