by Gar Wilson
"We call it staying alive, you silly bastard," said an impatient McCarter. "Or would you have been happier if Goldblum and Draco had been killed?"
"Chasing after these damn gangsters is asking for trouble," Kalvo insisted.
"We've already got trouble," James said bluntly. "That's why we're here. To take care of a problem before it turns into an international disaster."
"You people are too..."
"Listen, Kalvo," McCarter interrupted, "just follow that bloody sedan. If you let those bastards get away you'll have a lot more to worry about than the Company's public relations in Greece."
"Heads up!" James announced eagerly. "See what I see?"
The sedan had pulled in front of a small building. Neither James nor McCarter could read the legend above the door, but the tinted windows and a crude painting of a grinning mermaid with enormous breasts suggested the place was a tavern. However, a big black limousine parked at the curb indicated the bar attracted a rather exclusive clientele.
"Drive past the place," James instructed. "Don't speed up or slow down, and don't stare at the bastards..."
"Look, Johnson," Kalvo snapped. "I know my job. I'm not a goddamn amateur."
"Glad you told us," McCarter muttered.
Kalvo drove past the tavern. They managed to get a glimpse of the two gangsters who emerged from the sedan. One was a tall man dressed in a white suit, black shirt and a fedora. His companion was a stocky character clad in a brown leather jacket and a black wool cap.
"Did you see those nitwits?" James chuckled. "They looked like something out of the late show."
"Don't laugh," Kalvo said sternly as he continued to drive down the street. "I recognized the guy in the suit from his mug shot in our files. He's Kosta Chrysostomos. The goon with him is probably Constantine Mercouri."
"We're from out of town, remember?" McCarter stated. "What's special about those blokes?"
"The police suspect they're professional killers," the CIA man replied. "They've both got a history of violence. Several arrests. No convictions. Now they're working for Theo Xerxes. The cops think Xerxes is Mr. Big, sort of a Greek version of the Godfather. We've found out the real cappo is Krio. Xerxes is just his commander here in Athens."
"Well, I'll be damned," James remarked. "You've done your homework on this subject, pal."
"We've been interested in Krio's connection with organized crime for some time," Kalvo admitted.
"Oh?" James raised his eyebrows. "You mean, before this business with the Bulgarians and the terrorists?"
"Yeah," the CIA man said awkwardly. "Well, I suppose it can't hurt to tell you about it now. You see, we were gathering information about Krio's syndicate in order to nail him on conspiracy charges for the various crimes committed by Xerxes and his people. Then the CIA, working with the Greek authorities, would offer Krio amnesty if he'd spill his guts about his involvement with the Communists. If he'd give us enough information about the Reds' plans in the Mediterranean region, we'd see to it he got relocated in Switzerland."
"Don't be embarrassed." McCarter laughed. "Blackmail and making deals is part of your trade. So is killing people from time to time. Which reminds me, did you bring along a gun?"
"A .38 snubnose revolver," Kalvo replied. "But I've never shot anyone. I didn't get into the Company in order to kill people."
"Terrorists aren't people," McCarter told him. "They're cockroaches that walk upright."
"You don't intend to just march into the tavern and start shooting?" the CIA man stared at McCarter.
"Of course not," James assured him. "Terrorists don't care about killing innocent people, but we do."
"Not very likely anybody in there is innocent." McCarter shrugged. "Only three cars parked in front of the place. All of them look pretty expensive, too. I'll lay odds everybody in there is a gangster."
"What about the bartender?" James asked.
"He's probably a syndicate man, too," Kalvo stated. "The tavern is a front set up by Xerxes. He's got them all over Athens. Didn't you notice the sign in the window? It means the place is closed."
"So the hoods are having a private get-together tonight." McCarter smiled. "Now let's just figure out how we're going to crash their party."
* * *
Paul Kalvo half dragged, half carried David McCarter to the front door of the Neroyinka Tavern. McCarter held both arms against his abdomen and bowed his head as if suffering from severe stomach pains.
"This isn't going to work, Miller," Kalvo whispered through clenched teeth.
"We can't wait for reinforcements to get here," McCarter whispered back. "The bastards might get away. We have to do it this way."
"But..."
"Quiet," McCarter rasped. "We're almost at the bleedin'door."
Kalvo knocked on the panel. The sound of shoe leather on linoleum was the only reply from within the tavern. McCarter began to moan. Kalvo knocked harder.
"Voitha'oh!" he shouted. "Help! There's been an accident!"
"Go away!" a voice snapped in curt Greek from the opposite side of the door.
"Parakalo," Kalvo insisted. "Please, I told you we need help. I've got an injured man..."
"That is not our problem," the voice snarled. "This isn't a hospital."
"Just let us use your telephone," Kalvo pleaded.
"Go pester someone else," the surly Greek inside the tavern answered. "Unless you want us to shoot your friend to put him out of his misery."
Laughter followed. McCarter did not understand the conversation, but the sound of the laughter was hardly encouraging. The men inside seemed to be amused by rejecting aid to an injured man. McCarter tried to guess how many voices were laughing. No less than three, he figured. Probably more.
"Sta'sis!" a voice snapped a command. The laughter ceased abruptly.
McCarter and Kalvo heard a bolt slide back. The door opened, and the tall man dressed in a white suit appeared. He offered them an artificial smile.
"I apologize for my friend," Chrysostomos told them. "He is overconcerned about crime in Athens. What seems to be wrong with your friend?"
"Car accident," Kalvo replied. "I think his ribs are broken."
"I see." The gangster nodded. "Please come in."
McCarter and Kalvo entered the tavern. The barroom contained simple wooden furniture. The walls were decorated with an assortment of fishnets, starfish and whaling harpoons. Stools surrounded circular tables, and a jukebox, which appeared to be at least twenty years old, sat in one corner of the room. The bar was a plain counter, with a heavy-set bald man stationed behind it.
Six men were seated at the tables. They varied in age and general appearance, but all seemed apprehensive about the unexpected visitors. Their eyes remained fixed on McCarter and Kalvo. Muscles tensed in their faces. Three of them slipped their hands inside jackets.
Kosta Chrysostomos closed the door. He then held up a .380 Beretta automatic in his right fist. A 7-inch sound suppressor was attached to the muzzle. The gangster aimed his weapon at Kalvo. "You police must think we're very stupid, eh?" Chrysostomos remarked.
" 'Police'?" Kalvo gasped. "We are not policemen. My friend and I..."
"If you're not police, that's too bad." Chrysostomos shrugged. "If you are police, then this is part of a trap. Either way, you two have to die."
David McCarter suddenly exploded into action. He adroitly tripped Paul Kalvo and shoved the CIA man with his left hand to send Kalvo to the floor. The warrior's right hand reflexively drew his Browning Hi-Power from the Bianchi holster under his arm as he threw himself to the linoleum, as well.
Chrysostomos was caught off guard by McCarter's tactic. The unexpected movement caused him to instinctively trigger his Beretta. The silenced pistol coughed harshly, and a .380 slug smashed into the door.
McCarter fired his first shot before he hit the floor. Two decades of pistol shooting and years of combat experience did the rest. Chrysostomos screamed as a 115-grain hollowpoint projectile ripped into his ch
est.
The Browning barked again and a second 9mm bullet struck Chrysostomos in the side of the face. The slug split his cheekbone and drilled an upward path to the gangster's brain. Kosta Chrysostomos's criminal career came to an abrupt and final end.
Before Chrysostomos's corpse fell, the other Greek hoods drew their weapons and opened fire. Lead missiles splintered floorboards and chipped wood from the legs of the table and stool that McCarter had rolled behind.
Adrenaline pumped through the SAS vet's veins. Excitement overcame fear. McCarter hardly noticed the enemy bullets that struck only inches from his prone figure. Wooden shards bit into the commando's hands, but this did not prevent him from aiming the Browning at the closest gangster.
He squeezed the trigger. The hood's head recoiled violently when a parabellum round nailed him in the forehead. Another Greek buttonman fired a 7.65mm Model 57 pistol at McCarter. The diminutive bullet found its target and pierced flesh, to burn a furrow through the Briton's right triceps.
"Bloody hell," McCarter gritted through clenched teeth as he fired back at his assailant.
The gunman shrieked. He dropped his Yugoslavian autoloader and doubled up with a 9mm slug buried in his large intestine. McCarter fired two more rounds into the wounded man's upper torso. A third Greek killer collapsed to the floor, but more remained to avenge their slain comrades.
A side entrance to the Neroyinka burst open as Calvin James kicked in the door and charged across the threshold. He held a Smith & Wesson Model 76 submachine gun in his fists.
The black commando instantly evaluated the situation with a professional glance. Two syndicate goons had turned over a table for cover as they fired pistols at McCarter and Kalvo. Another Greek gangster had moved to the cover of a pillar and aimed a revolver at the Briton's position. The bartender took a double-barreled shotgun from under his counter and prepared to join the battle, as well.
James aimed his M-76 and caressed the trigger. A 3-round burst of 9mm hail slashed into the spine of the hood stationed behind the pillar. The man screamed as bullets shattered his backbone and severed his spinal cord. Skin was scraped from his face as he slid down the pillar to the floor.
The bartender swung his shotgun toward James, but the black man had already selected him for his next target. The S&W chatterbox rattled out a curt metallic song of death. Two parabellum rounds tore into the bartender's upper chest. A third delivered a very messy tracheotomy as it punched through the hollow of his throat. The bartender dropped his scattergun and clutched both hands to his bullet-gouged neck. Then his eyes rolled toward the ceiling and he collapsed behind the bar.
The two killers stationed behind the table shelter heard the roar of James's submachine gun. The syndicate triggermen quickly turned their attention toward the black commando. In doing so, they made a fatal mistake — they turned their backs to Paul Kalvo.
The CIA agent finally had a clear target. He raised his .38 Special Charter Arms revolver in a two-hand grip and aimed at the shoulder blades of the closest goon.
Kalvo's hands trembled as he squeezed the trigger, causing his shots to travel higher than he'd intended. One bullet missed the gangster, but the other two smashed into the base of the hoodlum's skull.
When his comrade crumbled to the floor with a chunk of his head missing, Constantine Mercouri whirled and fired his Colt 1911A1 automatic at Kalvo. A .45 caliber slug slammed into the bridge of Paul Kalvo's nose. The back of his skull exploded. Yet a muscle reflex allowed Kalvo to fire his snub-nose revolver one last time.
Mercouri cried out and dropped his Colt. A .38 bullet had struck his shoulder, blasting cartilage that held the joint together. The gangster spun about to see the muzzle of the M-76 submachine gun aimed in his direction. Calvin James's face resembled an ebony carving of a Zulu war god as he calmly triggered his weapon.
Bullets crashed into Constantine Mercouri's chest. Blood splashed his brown leather jacket as the impact of multiple 9mm rounds kicked him back against the table. Man and furniture slammed to the floor in a lifeless, shattered heap.
"Calvin!" McCarter shouted when he saw a large figure bolt from the cover of the jukebox.
Strabo, the muscular limo driver, had scrambled to the shelter of the big music box when the shooting began. The big Greek did not carry a gun, so he simply stayed behind cover, kept his head low and waited. But now, with all his companions dead, Strabo had only one chance to survive.
He attacked James with the only weapons he had — his hands and feet. James swung the M-76 at the chauffeur. Strabo's leg lashed out and a boot smacked into the S&W subgun. The kick struck the weapon from the antiterrorist's grasp.
McCarter aimed his Browning Hi-Power at Strabo's broad back but held his fire. James was too close to the Greek terrorist. McCarter was a superb pistol marksman. Yet he realized his wounded arm reduced his accuracy. Besides, a 9mm parabellum slug could punch clean through Strabo and hit James. McCarter cursed under his breath and hoped a better target would present itself.
Strabo followed his kick with a rapid seiken punch to the point of James's jaw. The black man's head bounced from the powerful karate blow. He staggered backward into the bar, his head lanced by shards of pain as bursts of light popped and blurred his vision.
Still, James saw the big Greek lunge forward. James dodged a vicious side kick that slammed into the panels of the bar. Wood cracked and the entire building seemed to tremble when Strabo's boot connected.
Strabo was good. He immediately slashed a crossbody shuto chop at James. The Phoenix Force warrior blocked the stroke with a forearm and swung a hook kick into the Greek's left kidney. Strabo bellowed in anger and pain. He used the bar for a brace and lashed a backward mule kick at his adversary.
James parried the kick with a karate chop to the ankle. Strabo nearly lost his balance as he spun about to face the black warrior. James's right leg rocketed into a high crescent kick. The edge of his foot slammed into Strabo's cheekbone. The Greek's head spun from the force of the blow, but he did not fall.
Strong son of a bitch, James thought as he plowed a ram's-head punch to Strabo's solar plexus. The brute gasped, and James hooked his left fist into Strabo's jaw. The big bad dude still did not go down.
Strabo's left hand swung a "tiger claw" at James's face. The black man leaped away from the slashing fingers and launched a high roundhouse kick to the guy's head. James's boot crashed into the side of Strabo's skull, just above the vulnerable temple. The Greek's nervous system went out to lunch, and Strabo finally dropped senseless to the floor.
"Nice work, mate," McCarter remarked as he approached. His left hand clutched his bullet-torn upper arm.
"This dude was candy," James replied. He gingerly rubbed his sore chin. "Hardrock candy. Damn near broke my jaw. Let me take a look at your arm."
"It'll keep," McCarter told him. "Better cuff your sparring partner before he comes to. None of the rest of these jokers will be going anyplace until the meatwagon arrives."
"How about Kalvo?" James asked as he knelt to bind Strabo's wrists together behind his back with plastic riot cuffs.
"Caught a bullet right between the eyes." The battle-scarred McCarter sighed. "I had that bloke figured for a pantywaist, but he died like a real warrior."
"I know." The black man nodded. "Probably saved my life."
"Well, the Athens police will be here any minute," McCarter said. "We'd better contact Katz and Draco unless we want to wind up in a Greek jail tonight."
"Yeah," James agreed. "I think they're gonna be pissed when we tell them how this raid turned out."
"Why should they feel any different about it than us?" McCarter replied with a fatalistic shrug.
14
The window to Rafael Encizo's room was open. The Cuban explained that he had opened it earlier to test for alarms. Apparently the window would be safe to use as a method for sneaking out of the mansion.
"I also checked the sill for pressure plates," Encizo told Manning. "Some alarms are tri
ggered by the weight of an intruder."
"How do you check for pressure plates?" the Canadian inquired, genuinely curious.
"The plates have to be made of metal," Encizo answered, "so I used a magnet. There aren't any plates here."
"What about sentries?" the Canadian asked.
"A pair of guards patrol outside," his partner said. "They just walk around the house in a circle. I timed them. Takes about fifteen minutes to make one round."
Manning stared out the window and gazed down the marble wall at the stone-paved ground two stories below. "What are we going to do?" he asked. "Hang a bed sheet outside and use it for a rope to shinny down to the ground?"
"We'd have to leave it dangling from the window," the Cuban answered. "That would be a dead giveaway to the sentries."
"So how are we going to get down there?"
Encizo replied by handing the Canadian his Sterling automatic. Then the Cuban climbed out the window. He gripped the sill with both hands and lowered his body over the edge. The Cuban gently swayed his dangling body like a pendulum. Then he let go.
He stayed close to the wall as he dropped. His foot hit the head jamb of a window on the first floor. Encizo seemed to bounce and whirl in midair. His feet hit the pavement. Encizo's bent knees allowed him to absorb the impact. Then he tumbled into a forward roll and smoothly sprang upright. Encizo looked up at Manning and smiled.
The Canadian whistled softly. "You gotta be kidding," he muttered under his breath.
Manning tossed the Sterling down to Encizo, then threw down his own Sterling and reluctantly climbed out the window. He seized the sill and dangled over the edge, trying to imitate his partner.
Encizo had made it look easy. Manning knew better. His heart seemed to throb in his windpipe as he hung on to the narrow ledge and swung his legs toward the window below. Manning clenched his teeth, hoped he would not break a leg and let go of the sill.
His foot hit the window jamb and slipped. Manning tried to pivot in the air. Pain shot through his left arm when his elbow struck the wall. The Canadian dropped to the ground. He landed feet first, but tumbled awkwardly when he tried to break his fall.
