"Let's take a taxi," Lyons suggested.
He steered them toward Fulton Industrial Boulevard, hoping to flag a cab there. Deborah did not move particularly quickly. She decided it was time to check how she looked. Lyons swore as she pulled a mirror out of her handbag. Then he noticed that she was not really looking at herself the mirror was doing a scan. He filed the information.
They had no luck finding a cab and soon found themselves walking to the nearest bus line. Lyons itched to look back, but he did not want to make his companion suspicious.
Half an hour later, they were in downtown Atlanta. Soon they would find a bus headed for Marietta, which would drop them in Smyrna, within walking distance of Elwood Electronic Industries.
"I wanna stop and eat," Deborah said.
Lyons thought about that. He had picked out only one tail, sitting three seats behind them on the bus. Lyons could not crane his neck trying to spot the car he was sure would be following them without giving himself away. Stopping to eat would give him a chance to spot and ditch whoever was following them.
"Sure," he agreed. "Let's get off here."
"There's no restaurant around here," she complained as he led the way to the door.
"We'll find one."
The tail walked to the front of the bus in order to keep his back to them. His technique was so clumsy that Lyons was sure he was there simply to be ditched.
They got off at a corner and started walking down the longest block he could find. Their tail wagged himself after them.
"You sure picked a tough part of town to take a stroll in," Deborah complained.
Lyons was looking for a way through to the next block. In the middle of the next block, he found exactly what he was looking for. A narrow gap between two buildings served as a walkway from the parking lot behind to the front of the building. Beyond the parking lot was the entrance from the next street. A car would have to go around the block to pick them up and Lyons could spot whoever followed them on foot.
"Through here," he grunted, picking up the pace.
He turned his head as he spoke. A man was hesitating at the mouth of the walkway. Lyons could not see enough from the corner of his eye to make an identification. He then caught sight of Deborah's face. She was eyeing him.
The parking lot was sheltered by buildings on four sides with just two lanes for entry and exit. In its secluded confines they ran into trouble. Six punks were stripping two cars and stowing the loot in the back of a van. Two other punks held switchblades on the elderly parking attendant.
Lyons's Colt Python rode a pancake holster in the small of his back, but drawing it would probably get the old attendant sliced. He turned his steps toward the attendant's booth, pretending not to notice the gang stripping the two cars.
"Get out of the way," he commanded Devine in a voice that would not carry.
She nodded and drifted off between the cars.
Lyons approached the booth as if he was oblivious to everything but his own thoughts. He rummaged around in his pockets, searching.
"I have my monthly pass here, somewhere," he muttered to the attendant.
The street gang was one of the few that had achieved integration. One of the attendant's tormentors was a blond fair-skinned youth, the other looked as if he was of Puerto Rican origin.
The blond youth snickered. "Yeah, sucker. Your ticket's just been canceled." His knife came away from the old man's throat and pointed at Lyons.
Lyons looked at the speaker as if seeing him for the first time. He was about twenty, thin, but tough looking. He then looked at the Puerto Rican punk. With a growl the goon slashed at Lyons's face.
The Able Team member's left hand clamped on the Puerto Rican's knife wrist, his right hand came up behind the elbow, forcing it straight. He used the punk's stiff arm to lever him into his buddy, who was knocked back three paces before he knew what was happening.
A sudden amount of extra pressure on the wrist snapped it like a dry twig. The knife fell to the asphalt. Lyons pushed back on the arm and let go. The punk staggered back a step. Lyons executed a snap kick to the crotch that introduced his opponent to a new world, one where nothing existed except pain.
The blond hood came in fast, his knife low and weaving. A grin of cruel satisfaction decorated his face.
"You gonna die slow," he told Lyons.
Lyons turned. The knife-wielder charged, straight into a back kick that broke his forearm and dumped him on his ass. Before he could figure what had hit him, a roundhouse kick to the temple relieved him of the necessity of ever figuring anything out again.
One of the youths who had been stripping a car stepped out from between the parked cars. He held a Saturday night special in a professional-looking two-handed grip.
"See how good you are at kicking bullets," the gunman sneered.
Lyons was in the open, too far from the gunman to reach him. Deborah Devine materialized between the cars, behind the gunman.
She grabbed his right shoulder with her left hand and pulled. At the same time she stomped hard into the back of the thug's right knee. The knee buckled and the gun was jerked to the side, its bullet flattening a tire on the car beside Deborah and her prey.
As the man turned, Deborah grabbed his gun wrist. With leverage on both his shoulder and his wrist, the would-be killer was easy prey to the curvy blonde. She twisted him around until his head met the corner of the car windshield with a solid whack. The gunman screamed in agony. The gun fell from his fingers. She shifted her left hand from his shoulder to his greasy hair. The head was smashed into the corner post once more. Devine let go of the unconscious form, picked up the gun and ran over to Lyons.
The thug's scream had alerted the rest of the gang. They abandoned the cars and came running. There were five of them. Two had revolvers, one had an automatic. The other two sported switchblades.
Deborah held the captured gun in a two-handed firing-range stance.
Lyons shot the gang member whose revolver was closest to being lined up on target.
The 158-grain wad cutter slammed into the punk's chest, stopping him dead. The two cannibals behind him were sprayed by the half pound of flesh that was shredded away from the exit wound.
Panic caused the animal with the automatic to fire prematurely. The Browning BDA .380 kicked and spewed its death seed into the air. Deborah's captured gun barked back and the punk spun away with the impact of a .38 in his shoulder.
What was left of the gang took off in a sprint for survival.
Deborah dropped the .38 into her purse as the parking-lot attendant walked up to Lyons.
"Thanks, mister," he said. "I thought I was gone."
"You're welcome," Lyons grunted.
The old man surveyed the dead punks. "I'll have the cops pick up the litter. They'll want to ask you some questions."
"Sorry, friend. I've got things to do. Just tell them that a pair of concerned citizens gave you some moral support."
Lyons and Deborah strolled toward the street. There was no use hurrying. Whoever had followed them had lots of time to set up both exits from the secluded parking lot.
Lyons spotted a grungy cafeteria in the middle of the next block.
"Still hungry?" he asked.
She nodded.
He mechanically began eating. "So what made you decide to help butcher people who work for computer firms?" Lyons asked around a mouthful of meat loaf.
Deborah finished chewing her mouthful of sandwich before answering. "I used to earn four hundred dollars a week as a stripper."
"Paint, film or clothes?" Lyons asked. He stared straight ahead while they talked, never looking at her. He shoveled in the food.