"No argument from me…"
Going to the roof's edge, they signaled to Abdul below. Lyons lowered Blancanales to Abdul's shoulder, then Abdul and Blancanales helped Lyons down.
In the courtyard, fires still burned in the gutted hulks of the trucks and cars. Dead and dying terrorists were sprawled everywhere. Human debris littered the walkways, the tiles slick with blood. Above the desert, the first pink light of day streaked the sky.
Able Team moved through the wreckage and death, searching for the American prisoner of the National Liberation Front.
19
Hiding in a closet, Omar shook with fear. The darkness of the tiny space stank of the urine fouling his fatigues. Ashamed of his fear of martyrdom, yet fearing capture more than death, the commander thought of suicide, to die with his men rather than accept the shame of trial.
Or interrogation. Were the attackers Egyptian commandos? If his countrymen took him, there was no hope. He would be dismembered as a matter of course. Unless he had enough gold to buy his freedom.
Or were they American? By radio from Cairo, his leader had warned him. It had been the Americans who had attacked his command center in the city. Did they now search for the American he had captured? What treatment could he expect? He thought of suicide, his body shaking at the thought.
Should he rush from hiding? Throw himself at the attackers? Offer his life to Allah?
Despite his terror, he laughed at these possibilities. He talked like that to his soldiers. He talked of Allah and martyrdom and Paradise, but he knew only graves awaited dead soldiers — sometimes not only graves, only places by the side of the road, a feast for green-backed flies.
But what if Americans found him?
Forcing himself to face the chance of death, he realized he feared death less than capture by the Americans. And even if he fought, death might not come quickly. Fumbling in the thigh pocket of his tailored fatigues, he found a grenade. He looped a finger through the safety pin.
If Egyptians found him, he would surrender and trust his luck to his compatriots' fickleness.
If Americans found him — the determined Americans — he would give himself a quick death and take the Americans with him.
In the first gray light of day, nothing moved. Flames flickered in the courtyard. Soot-heavy smoke rose in swirls as the dying wind whipped the flames. Somewhere a wounded man screamed and whimpered.
"We can't go room to room," Blancanales told Lyons. "We'd run into every one of those losers who are still alive."
"I know all about it. Number one cop fear: searching rooms with lowlifes waiting to kill you."
"If we can find one alive, one who'll tell us where our man is…"
Lyons laughed. "Then we got to search these rooms. Let's go." He keyed his hand radio. "Wizard!"
Gadgets jogged around the corner. "What you want?"
"See any of these losers alive?"
"I hear one." He pointed toward the sound of the screaming man.
"Get the others organized. We got to find that Agency man. If we can find a raghead who knows where, that'll get us out of here quick."
Turning to the office behind them, Lyons pointed to himself. "I take the door. Cover me through the window."
Blancanales stood beside the window. He leaned forward for an instant, exposing himself to any terrorists hiding inside, then snapped back. An auto-burst ripped through the window, glass tinkling to the tiles.
"Come out and you live!" Lyons shouted.
Arabic answered him. Abdul shouted Arabic to those inside. They waited for an answer. "I told them we would give them mercy…"
The door slammed open, a blur with a Kalashnikov spinning to aim his autorifle at the men at the window. Lyons fired his Atchisson from a distance of six inches into the chest of the terrorist. The muzzle-blast lit a girl's face as the shock threw her through the air, her back exploding in a spray of blood.
A grenade flew from the window. Blancanales swatted it back with one hand, then crouched as the flash threw glass and dust from the window. Abdul called out again for the terrorists inside to surrender.
No answer. Gadgets pulled a grenade from his battle armor. "These diehards deserve a special treat." He jerked the pin from a canister, let the lever flip free, counted, "One, two, three…"
As he pitched the grenade in, a voice shouted. Abdul translated, "They want to surrender."
White phosphorous created hell. They heard screams inside. "Too late," muttered Gadgets.
As they went to the next office, a form glowing with specks of metallic incandescence clawed at the window. Jagged shards of glass slashed the screaming terrorist's hands and arms. White fire burned in the howling mouth of the creature as the phosphorous melted through the face, continued burning into the tissues of the throat. Abdul raised his Uzi to give the agonized terrorist the release of death.
Lyons pushed the weapon aside. "Let it go. Maybe that noise will motivate these other crazies to come out."
Abdul went to the next office and shouted inside.
A voice answered in Arabic. As the screaming continued, Abdul spoke with the terrorist inside. He turned to Lyons. "He says he'll surrender. Will you kill him?"
"Not if he tells us what we need to know."
Abdul negotiated with the man inside. The door opened and a Kalashnikov clattered onto the tiles. A young man came out, his hands high. Lyons grabbed him by the collar and slammed him down to the tiles. With one foot on the boy's back, Lyons held the Atchisson against the boy's head as Blancanales searched him. Blancanales found two grenades, which he passed to Gadgets. He pocketed a knife.
"Is there anyone else in there? If he lies, I kill him."
The boy shook his head to Abdul's questions.
"Now ask him where the American is."
Again the boy shook his head, pleaded with his captors. "He says he doesn't know anything about him."
"Is the American still alive?"
Abdul questioned the boy, then translated the answers. "He saw the American. The others brought the American from the city. He doesn't know anything about him. He's only a recruit. With the National Front a month."
"And there's no one else inside there?"
"He said no."
"We'll find out." Lyons jerked the boy to his feet and shoved him into the office doorway. Crying and pleading, the boy twisted to face Lyons. Holding his prisoner in front of him, Lyons stepped into the room. Blancanales waved a flashlight over the interior.
A dead soldier sprawled on a table, his stiffening hand holding a wadded rag against a chest wound. Blood soaked his uniform, puddled on the table and floor. Using the boy as a shield, Lyons searched the room. He hooked a closet door open with his boot, stepped back. Blancanales shone the flashlight inside. They saw stacks of papers and books.
Stripping a grenade from the dead terrorist, they went to the next office. Abdul called out for surrender. He received no answer. Lyons shoved the boy in front of the window. No shots came.
Lyons kicked open the door, then took cover against the thick clay wall. But no terrorists fired. Lyons pushed the boy through the door. Then he rushed inside, his Atchisson ready. Blancanales followed an instant later.
An RPG had punched through the wall, shredding books and filing cabinets. Grabbing the boy, keeping him in front of them, Lyons and Blancanales searched the demolished room. They found no one.
As they left the office, the boy spoke quickly with Abdul. "He says he will take us to the commander's office. The commander will know."