"We cannot take the time," the lieutenant replied. "The criminals fled to another building. When we attempted to detain the fascists, they fired on my men. We know where they are, but an assault from the street is not possible. What do you know of these fascists?"
Blancanales saw blood dripping from Lyons's coat sleeve. "You got hit."
"Their commander is someone named General Mendez," Lyons answered the lieutenant first. Then he made a fist and moved his arm for Blancanales to see. "It still works."
"Alfonso Deloria Mendez was very important in the previous administration," the lieutenant told them. "I recognized him from parades. That means we must act tonight. Now, he probably calls the ex-president and his friends for help. Tomorrow we cannot touch him."
As the lieutenant spoke, Miguel Coral joined the group. Lyons turned to him. "They ran to a building near here," he said to Coral. "You know anything about it?"
"Nothing. What is the problem?"
"They look down on the avenida," Lieutenant Soto said. "Their machine guns fired down on my men. We cannot assault from the street. And we cannot call for other units. No airborne troops, no armored forces. I only trust the men with me. And you North Americans.''
"No other way into the building?" Blancanales asked. "Is it possible we could fire down from another building?"
"The tower of Trans-Americas S.A. is the highest in the area."
Coral glanced at his watch. "Soon, with luck, you will have your airborne forces. Perhaps ahorita."
"What?" the lieutenant asked.
"The helicopter. When our surveillance men saw you soldiers, we warned the pilot, Senor Davis, and the Yaqui. They went to get the helicopter. We thought it would be the best way to escape the city."
"And what about Vato and Ixto?" Lyons asked.
"I will radio." Coral called to one of his men. The man took a walkie-talkie from the panel truck and ran to Coral. Flipping the switch, they heard only static. Coral went up the ramp to the open air. He spoke into the radio. After a few seconds, he returned.
"The helicopter comes. All the boys are with it."
"We will take the helicopter," the lieutenant told the North Americans. "With it, my platoons can land on the top of the building, where the criminals will not expect them."
Gadgets glanced to the blood-splashed, corpse-littered floor of the garage. "The unexpected is hitting a lot of people today," he said.
"Thought you didn't want to fly this thing anymore." Leaning forward to the pilot station, Lyons shouted over the rotor noise to Davis. The DEA pilot checked his instruments as soldiers boarded the helicopter.
"I don't! This thing's junk." Davis turned to glance at the soldiers crowding through the door. He saw Lyons's clothes. "Man, you look like you been rolling in blood."
"I have."
"I believe it. Your gear's back there. All those Mexicans are in blacksuits. And from what I understand, they're going to be shooting goons who are wearing clothes just like those. There could be a misunderstanding."
"You talked me into it," Lyons said, glancing back to check out the packs of gear secured to the seat frames and the gun mount.
The helicopter idled on the roof of a high rise. A block away, the Trans-Americas S.A. tower stood against the sky, its office lights creating random patterns of white and black. Several soldiers stood outside the radius of the rotor blades. They would take the next flight to the roof of the fascist headquarters.
Lyons tossed out his partners' gear. "Wizard! Pol!"
"Thanks," Gadgets shouted. "You go with the lieutenant. We'll come over on the second trip." Gadgets carried the packs back to Blancanales, waiting with the Yaquis.
Lyons's pack had been lashed to the door gun's mount by its hip belt. He pushed aside the barrel of the M-60 and stripped off his blood-crusted sports coat and shirt. He paused to find the wound. A bullet had grazed his left forearm. It would not even need stitches. Just another scar.
He did not take the time to change from his gray slacks. He pulled on his faded black fatigue shirt. It stank of sweat and dust from the Sonora desert. Over his fatigue shirt, he slipped on his Kevlar and steel battle armor and slapped the Velcro closures. The Kevlar would stop all low-velocity bullets and shrapnel. The steel trauma-plate insert over his heart and lungs would stop all rifle bullets. The armor had saved his life before, stopping a point-blank burst from a Kalashnikov in an Able Team battle in Cairo.
A second later, the helicopter lifted away. Lyons buckled bandoliers of ammunition and grenades over the black battle armor. He transferred his Colt from the shoulder holster to his web belt's holster. He touched the Python in the hideaway holster at the small of his back. Two speedloaders went into his pants' pocket. Then he fastened the safety strap around his waist and leaned out the side door.
The helicopter flew over canyons of light. Lines of headlights and taillights marked the avenida. Vertical walls of glass shimmered with reflections of the traffic lights and neon. Electric billboards flashed with colored lights.
Even at hundreds of meters above the streets, the night smelled of auto pollution.
Rising above the other corporate buildings, the tower of Trans-Americas S.A. had a penthouse topped with satellite dishes and radio antennae. The circle and crossed lines of a helipad marked an open area of asphalt. Lights illuminated the helipad. A wind sock hung on a pole, motionless in the gray night.
Lyons saw figures leaving the penthouse. Two gunmen carried a stretcher. Other gunmen saw the helicopter and waved.
The lieutenant pointed and shouted. "Perhaps that is General Mendez they carry. I think they wait for an army helicopter. Understand why I would not call for help?"
"Entiendo." Lyons nodded. He spoke into the intercom. "Fly-boy, take us in straight. Time for another surprise."
"You specialists are very surprising fellows."
"Keeps us alive."
"Until someone surprises you."
"Never happen. We're ready for anything. Boy Scout motto..."
On the helipad, a gunman pointed at the approaching troopship. Another gunman raised an Uzi. The crowd of fascists unslung weapons. Davis banked the helicopter away and shouted through the headphones. "You ready for a hot LZ?"
Slugs clanked into the fuselage. The helicopter veered away. Lyons looked down at the lights of the avenida, then the helicopter returned to level flight.
As the Mexicans raked the rooftop with their M-16 rifles, Lyons slung his Atchisson over his shoulder. Trusting his life to the safety webbing, he stood behind the pedestal-mounted M-60. He pulled the belt of 7.62 NATO cartridges from the can. Locking back the bolt, he set the safety and opened the feed-tray cover and positioned the first cartridge in the feed-tray groove. He closed the cover and eased forward the bolt to chamber the first round. He sighted on the stretcher.
If he killed General Mendez, he killed the commander of the International in Mexico.
Green tracers from the M-60 skipped off the asphalt helipad and pinwheeled into the night. A fascist gunman staggered back and fell over the stretcher. Other gunmen threw the dead man aside. They grabbed the handles of the stretcher and ran for shelter. Lyons held the sights on the white-wrapped man on the stretcher. One of the gunmen carrying the stretcher fell.
The helicopter gained altitude, throwing Lyons's line of fire off. He saw the surviving gunman drag the stretcher into the penthouse. Lyons spoke into the intercom. "Davis, circle level and hold it."
As the helicopter dropped, Lyons saw muzzle-flashes in the windows of the penthouse. He sighted on the dark windows and fired, holding the trigger back as the line of green tracers shattered the windows and punched through the walls. He saw green zigzags inside the penthouse as tracers ricocheted through the interior.