Jishin regained her feet and barked commands. "Weapons out and look sharp. Throw yourselves flat and return any fire. Don't push each other, push that smart ass out there."
Her hoarse, drill-sergeant voice brought them short. It was evident that they still had more fear of Jishin than they had of grenades. M-16s were readied and cocked. The trainees left the bus and hit the close-cropped lawn like trained infantry. They spread and started to return the machine-gun fire that cut into them from the corner of a nearby building.
The driver started to leave his seat. Jishin pushed him back roughly.
"Fool! Don't you go running out into an ambush. Get this thing out of here."
The driver took no more convincing. The bus took off, careening around the orderly but deserted drives, heading for Cambridge traffic. On board were Jishin, twenty Communist-trained terrorists, seven dead terrorists-in-training and three who were so wounded that they had been unable to leave the bus. The professionals used knives to silence those three as they sped from ambush.
July 13, 1002 hours, Atlanta, Georgia
Lyons had had to jog almost two miles before finding a telephone. His return to the window was cautious. He noticed that the window was down. He walked up to it slowly. Four terrorists rushed him. Lyons caught the motion out of the corner of his eye.
The first thug to reach him came from the left. He ran straight into a spear hand to the larynx. The terrorist lay down and drowned in his own bloody
Lyons side kicked the idiot diving at him from the right. The man's low flight took him straight into the whipping boot. A loud snap sounded as the man's neck broke.
The impact put the Able Team warrior slightly off balance, causing him to spin ninety degrees before he could put his foot down and brace himself. By that time, the last two were on top of him — one wore brass knuckles, the other had a small blackjack. Lyons jerked his head to one side. The brass knuckles painfully scraped one ear.
Lyons backed up quickly, trying to separate himself from the attackers. The goon with the brass knuckles attacked. His flurry of blows bruised Lyons's forearms and opened a cut on his cheek. Lyons suddenly lashed out with his foot. The fighter with the knuckles coolly twisted and took the kick on the thigh, lashing out with a jab as he did so.
The scrappy blond deflected the jab with a punch to the forearm. He then saw that the other terrorist was circling to come at him from behind. Before the man could move in behind him, he launched a swift assault against the animal with the knuckles. He advanced with a series of kicks. His enemy managed to dodge one and deflect one, but a third kick crashed into open ribs, sending the goon staggering.
Lyons whirled on the blackjack wielder just in time to drive his knuckles into the back of the hand wielding the weapon. The goon tried to score with a backswing, but had his hand hit again. A shout of agony escaped his lips, but he hung onto the sap.
Lyons then stepped to one side and spun around. His other opponent nearly bowled his ally off his feet as he charged right past where Lyons had been. Carl hurried the charge with a boot to the calf.
Both men swung to face him. This time they were both on the same side of their intended victim. Lyons rapidly closed in on the terrorist with the brass knuckles, giving him no time to get set or to think. He intercepted a straight jab by grabbing the wrist with his right hand and locking the elbow with his left. He gave a hard pull, levering one opponent into the other. The moment the two thugs collided, they lost the match.
Lyons was instantly upon them. He dropped the terrorist with the brass knuckles with a short, sharp kidney punch. The killer with the blackjack received a foot stomp that ended his useless life. The other left the world after taking a blow to the temple.
Lyons walked around the building until he found where the power cables entered. His job was clear cut — get Deborah away from about forty armed terrorists and do it before they could react and kill her.
He pulled the Colt Python from the holster in the small of his back. It was not his usual gun. He had chosen a simple four-inch barrel, .357 Magnum. He could not spare the pocket space for rapid loaders. The bulk would have shown, but he did have extra ammunition distributed around his pockets, about twenty extra rounds. It was not much, but it had to be enough.
He fired two 200-grain bullets into the power transformer that served the building. While the transformer arced and died, he replaced the two spent shells with live rounds. He then walked to the front of the building.
The front quarter of the ground floor was just that — a front. Step two was to remove these naive types from the battle zone.
Lyons put a hand to his cheek. It was still oozing blood. He wiped the hand clean, first on his forehead and then on his shirtfront. By that time he was passing the large display window in the front of the building.
The WAR volunteer workers were bustling around because the electric typewriters and the copier no longer worked. They stopped bustling and stared when a blood-smeared monstrosity kicked in the display window and strode over the broken glass, gun in hand.
The only person in the office who was not suddenly frozen was a redheaded secretary outside the manager's office. She produced a .25 Bauer automatic with her right hand, while reaching for a concealed buzzer with her left. A single, lead mind stopper canceled the intentions of both hands.
"You have thirty seconds to get out of here," Lyons shouted.
All took the hint.
Lyons went through the empty manager's office to the door in back. He knew his first stop had to be the firing range in the basement. There he could arm himself and cut off the access to the guns and supplies of ammunition. The brig or cage was not far from the range. That would be the next step. He figured that would be where they had put Deborah.
He reached the stairs to the basement without incident. However, James Saint and two of the imported terrorists came out of the firing range just as he reached the bottom of the steps. Saint was not slow. His first glance at the gun-toting, blood-smeared apparition was sufficient.
"Get him," Saint commanded.
Saint backed his command with a flying dive through the door to the firing range. His two henchmen did not have guns in their hands; Lyons did. The two terrorists never had guns in their hands again. The first was still trying to get a hand under his shirt when the 200-grain Magnum went through the hand, through the shirt and through the terrorist, removing three inches of spine from his back.
The second killer managed to produce an ancient Astra 400 from his side pocket before a bullet made mush out of his face.
Lyons scooped up the unfired Astra. He hoped the 1921 model automatic would not blow up in his hand, but he needed every shot he could find. Before following Saint into the firing range, he paused to recharge the Colt.
Before he could continue, he heard Deborah Devine shout. "Carl. Not in here. It's a trap." Then she screamed. The voice came from the brig area of the basement.
At the bottom of the steps there was a small hall off which opened three doors. One went to a storage cupboard and was always locked. Another was for the firing range and the third was for a utility room, which contained the cage.
"I heard you. Thanks," Lyons called out.
Then he hit the door.
The ruse had worked.
Six of the hard-core terrorists were in the room with the cage. They all had M-16s. When Lyons called that he had the message, they went into motion to pursue him. When the door swung inward, it caught one terror goon in the face. The other five were all in motion and not set. They never had a chance to get set.