Lyons closed his eyes against the flare light and waited. The firing continued, the squads of gunmen targeting the soldiers.
Lyons waited with his eyes closed, breathing steadily, preparing himself for the sprint. He calmed himself despite the firing of the autoweapons and the screams and the shouting.
The alley went dark. Lyons dashed across the alley. He had almost no vision in the dark, but he heard other shoes running, then saw two shapes with Uzis. Lyons threw himself against a wall, stumbled through trash, found a doorway. The Uzis fired. The platoon replied with one long ragged burst, high-velocity slugs singing past the doorway, ricocheting from concrete and steel, a man grunting with the shock of a wound. Then the alley went white again.
A Mexican in a sports coat stood beside Lyons. As the Mexican brought up an Uzi, Lyons slammed him with the butt of the Atchisson. Stunned, the gunman fell back against a steel door. Lyons kicked the Mexican, driving a full-power karate front kick into the man's crotch. Gasping, falling forward, the gunman took another kick in the face.
Slugs tore past the doorway. Lyons untangled the Uzi from the semiconscious man's hands.
Hands grabbed him from the back. Lyons whipped around, swinging the Uzi in his left hand like a hammer.
A dying gunman, his clothes soaked in his blood, his nose and one eye gone, fell on Lyons. Lyons threw the blind man aside, then kicked him in the throat. The blind man clutched at Lyons's foot.
Scanning the alley for other fascists, Lyons smashed his shoe down on the gunman's throat, crushing his larynx. He died choking as Lyons stripped off his belt and used it to tie the hands of the first gunman.
Searching their pockets, Lyons found a revolver and spare Uzi mags. The revolver went in his coat pocket. He put a full mag in an Uzi. The Uzi in his left hand, his Atchisson in his right, Lyons crouched in the doorway, waiting as the flare swung lower and lower in the sky.
The alley went black. The fascists threw grenades into the darkness, the blasts coming in one ragged explosion. The fire from the soldiers stopped. A group of gunmen rushed past Lyons, their Uzis and sawed-off shotguns flashing. Lyons sprinted from the doorway.
A gunman crouching behind a sedan saw Lyons, but didn't fire. Like the fascists, Lyons wore slacks and a sports coat. The moment of hesitation cost the fascist his life. Point-blank, Lyons triggered a one-handed burst of 9mm bullets into the gunman's face.
As Lyons wove through the cars, another gunman turned toward him, with a bloody bandage on one arm, the other hand holding a pistol. A single blast from the Atchisson threw him back.
A bullet ripped past Lyons's head. He dropped and spun, his left hand spraying slugs.
Full-jacketed 9mm parabellums gouged car steel, broke glass, tore through the legs of a charging fascist. A slug shattered a femur, the leg bowing outward. The man went down screaming, clutching his twisted leg. Lyons put a 2-shot burst through the top of the fascist's head, and the Uzi's bolt slammed down on the empty chamber.
Another flare popped. Lyons crouched between the cars. He heard firing coming from the street. The cars and trucks blocked his view. He scanned the area around him, saw two gunmen with M-16 rifles climbing stairs to a warehouse roof. Lyons dropped out the spent Uzi mag, then jammed another into the Israeli machine pistol. He slung the weapon, letting it hang on his left side.
Putting the Atchisson to his shoulder, he sighted on the fascists going to the roof. A blast of double-ought and number-two steel shot threw one man against the concrete wall. The other man turned, took a storm of steel balls in the chest and face. Screaming, blood spraying from his torn lungs and throat, he fell back against the wall, lurched forward and finally fell over the railing. He screamed some more as he dropped to the street.
Footsteps pounded between the cars. Lyons heard the gunmen shouting to one another. He understood some of the panicked words.
A grenade bounced over the asphalt. Lyons kicked it away, heard it roll under the nearest car and continue beyond. Still crouching, he stepped up into the open door of the rental car.
The grenade flashed, thousands of tiny steel razors zipping under the parked vehicles, tires blowing, a man screaming. Another grenade bounced on sheet metal. This one fell next to the car in which Lyons hid.
Scrambling across the back seat, he saw a gunman standing in the back of a pickup. The gunman watched the space where Lyons had been. When the grenade banged, Lyons fired the Atchisson once, flipping the fascist backward.
A fireball rushed up into the night from the car's ruptured gas tank. Lyons ran from the flames. Forms moved in the orange light. Firing single shots, he dropped one after another. Then he rushed into the open, away from the jam of International vehicles.
A hundred meters away, muzzles flashed. High-velocity slugs zipped past Lyons. He dived, slamming into the sidewalk. Rolling, he hit a wall with his shoulder. Concrete steps blocked the rifle fire, slugs skipping off the steps and whining away. He looked up, saw a door. But the door had no handle. No escape that way. He looked back, saw fascists against the flames. Crisscrossing autofire went over him. He did not reveal his position by shooting. Pulling out the hand-radio in his coat pocket, he keyed the transmit.
"This is the Ironman. I'm on the street. Down behind some steps. I think I'm in a cross fire between the goon squad and the army."
In the alley, Gadgets answered first. "The lieutenant's taking it slow. Moving his men up. Looks to me like it's almost over."
"Get to him. Tell him to radio his sergeant that I'm one of the good guys."
"Will do." Gadgets left the cover of the bullet-riddled car. Staying low, he zigzagged across the alley. He crouched behind two soldiers. They reared back when they saw his sports coat and casual shirt, the uniform of the fascists. Gadgets put up his hands, the palms forward and open.
"Paz, amigos. Yo estoy a sus lado. Dande estd el teniente?"
A soldier pointed to a freight door. "Alli."
Gadgets dashed to the lieutenant's position. "No dispare! Don't shoot," he called out. "Good guy coming. Lieutenant Soto?"
"Here. What is it?"
"My partner's up there, out on the street. He's caught between the goons and your other platoon. Could you radio your sergeant and tell him not to shoot him?"
"He's up there? He has joined the ones you say are the enemy?"
"Joined them to kill them. He rushed them, didn't you see? You think the Nazis threw those grenades at one another?" Gadgets pointed to the flaming cars and trucks. "Look at that. Death and destruction."
The lieutenant spoke into his walkie-talkie.
Against the steps, Lyons stayed low. He had put down his Atchisson. With his modified-for-silence Colt, he watched for fascist gunmen in the flames. More than silencing the pistol, the suppressor would also eliminate the muzzle-flash.
A silhouette went from one shadow to another. Squinting into the blazing gasoline, Lyons lined up the Colt's night-sight dots on the form. He saw the silhouette shift. Aiming at the curve suggesting the top of a head, Lyons squeezed off a shot.
The head moved, the gunman rising to fire at the advancing soldiers. The .45-caliber hollowpoint skipped off the hood of a car. Lyons saw a piece of the silhouette spin away.
A piercing, bubbling scream came from the wounded fascist. He rose to his feet and staggered. Lit by flames, the man clutched at his open throat and face, his hands searching for a jaw finding only a tongue and a vast wound. Then rifle fire threw him back.
Lyons saw another man crawling along the asphalt, dragging one leg. A .45 hollowpoint smashed through his other leg, flipping him onto his back. The fascist clawed at the street, trying to somehow escape the agony of his wounds.
Rifles continued to fire from the alley and from the other end of the street. But Lyons saw no more fascists with weapons. He keyed his hand-radio again.