Lyons fired both the revolver and the automatic, one from each hand — twelve bullets. Each ambusher had his ticket to hell punched twice.
Deborah was curled in the cage. Her clothing was torn and there were some cigarette burns on her back and buttocks.
"God, am I glad to see you," she gushed.
Lyons just nodded as he charged the Colt once more. He put it back in its concealed holster and then released her. While he tended to the guns, Deborah did a quick-change act. She peeled her torn clothing and took pants and shirt from the body that was closest to her size. It was a common-sense action, done quickly and efficiently.
Lyons's eyes reflected a rare warmth when he handed her two of the M-16s. In return, she gave him a smile — shaky, but genuine.
"What's next, boss?"
"Next, we close this joint down."
There was no argument, no discussion of the odds, no mention of referring the decision up the chain of command. She merely nodded, checked the clips on both rifles and waited for further instructions.
"A large group are holed up in the firing range, waiting for us," Lyons told Devine. "We can't attack and we can't get out of here past them."
"So?"
"So find some black tape on the workbench."
While Deborah sifted through the clutter on the workbench, Lyons got two cans of Coke from one of the coin machines.
"No tape, but there's some black spray paint."
"It will have to do. Blacken these as fast as possible."
He tossed her the cans of Coke.
"Just the right size for Israeli grenades," she commented.
"Let's hope they think so."
Deborah was back within a minute. The cans dripped paint across the floor and down her left hand. Both fighters held their cocked automatic rifles ready to fire with one hand.
Lyons took a slippery can of pop in his left hand and put half a clip of .223s through the opposite door.
It took only five paces to cross the hall and kick the door to the firing range open the rest of the way. Both fighters launched their blackened cans of pop through the door, paused one second and followed.
There was a strangled cry. "Hand bomb!"
When the warriors stepped into the room, every killer's eye was still fastened on the soaring cans of Coke.
Deborah emptied one M-16 in a sweeping motion that cut across every standing terrorist in the room. She then ducked behind a gun cabinet and started to pick at individuals.
Lyons fired short bursts, taking out Saint and the terror goons he felt most dangerous. He used the half clip and then a full clip with lightning-fast selective shooting.
The battle of the firing range was over before most of the participants were aware that it had begun. Devine and Lyons looked at each other and then at the clutter of bodies. There were ten goons who would never again kill a computer scientist. Lyons opened a cabinet and lifted out a batch of clips for the M-16s.
When they left the firing range, Deborah carried three loaded autorifles. Lyons carried six, five of which were slung on his right shoulder.
Two curious faces looked down the steps to the basement. Both faces vanished in a spray of red. The sound of weapons' fire outside the firing range brought one student to the door of the dojo. Lyons saw him and waved him over. The curious student came over and received a single shot through the eye. At the same time, Deborah stepped through the doorway to the karate-training gym and took out the rest of the class.
The mop up was quick, brutal. No one was left in the terrorist wing of the WAR building. By the time it was finished, the sound of a siren was near. Someone from the front part had telephoned the police. Lyons and Deborah dropped the M-16s and left the building by a fire exit.
13
July 13, 1313 hours, Smyrna, Georgia
Hal Brognola was in the chief executive's office at Elwood Electronic Industries, talking on the telephone. Whatever the conversation was about, he did not appear pleased. In his ashtray were the remains of his last cigar. It had been bitten in two. When Lyons and Deborah appeared in the doorway, his frown deepened.
Lyons flopped into a chair and indicated one for Deborah.
"How many got away?" Brognola said into the phone. "How the hell did they get booked onto flights so fast? Shit!" Brognola paused and thought for about five seconds. "I'll have to call back. Carl's just come in and has something to report. Give me a telephone number. Okay. I've got that. Stand by."
Brognola hung up the telephone. He again picked up the receiver and dialed a number inside the company.
"Ti, can you get in here right away. Carl's just come in and things have gone sour in Boston. On second thought, find some chairs and coffee, we'll come to you. We're probably going to have to include your computer in this conference."
He hung up without waiting for an answer and dialed another three-digit number.
"Aaron, Ti's lab as quickly as you can make it. Find Pol and Gadgets. They're somewhere in the building. Bring them along."
Brognola pushed his chair back and stood up, but made no move toward the door. "Perhaps you'd better reintroduce us," he told Lyons.
"Hal, this is Deborah Devine, state cop. Deborah, this is Hal Brognola, head Fed."
Deborah gave Brognola a firm handshake.
Brognola headed for the door. "Come on," he said over his shoulder. "I want to hear what happened, but you might as well tell it to everybody at once."
When they filed into Ti's lab, the Bear, Pol and Gadgets were already there.
Ti looked furious. "Mr. Brognola," she said formally, "you hung up on me before I could give my report — I also have bad news."
Brognola just shook his head. "Report," he sighed.
"About twenty minutes ago, there was a long-distance collect call from Boston to the computer center in Santa Clara. The computer recorded it. I was listening to it when you called. Now, there has been a sudden burst of computer activity. They're using the interface with the smaller computers in their major cities to send the messages."
Brognola held up his hand to stop Ti at that point. "Let me tell everyone what happened in Boston. Then the rest of your report will make more sense."
Ti nodded.
"You and your computer had already determined that Jishin's most probable target was the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, the lab where they're doing work on supercooled, superspeed computers. We rushed Manning and McCarter there just in case. They set up an ambush and sprang it as soon as they made a positive identification of the terrorists. Unfortunately Jishin was able to sacrifice her homegrown terrorists and get away with the hard-core international killers, ones that were Moscow trained.
"They had already wiped out the driver and six passengers when they commandeered a bus. They used the bus to drive back to Logan International Airport. There they simply killed passengers for their tickets and bookings and climbed onto domestic flights where they wouldn't have to show identification. That left twenty-two more bodies at the airport. Manning and McCarter are having the destinations of the victims checked out, and are standing by for further instructions."
Ti did not give them time to discuss the tragedy in Boston. Her fingers flew over the computer keyboard. Suddenly Jishin's hoarse voice rasped from a speaker.
"This is Commander Jishin. I wish orders sent out to all branches immediately."
"Yes, Commander."
"Condition red. All base commanders are to destroy their targets tomorrow at twelve hundred hours. Have you got that?"
"Yes, Commander."
"Then send it immediately. I'll call in a few hours for acknowledgments.''
The line went dead. Over the dial tone, the man in Santa Clara said, "Yes, Commander."